


Misconceptions

by kuhekabir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con References, Underage Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:26:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuhekabir/pseuds/kuhekabir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's betrayal has more consequences than even Sherlock could've anticipated. With Sherlock's past unravelling right before his eyes, will he be able to forgive John and more importantly will he come out this new case alive and with his sanity intact? Plus an interfering older brother and one curious Detective Inspector and  the scene is set for chaos...of the emotional kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misconceptions

**Author's Note:**

> Please read all the warnings.
> 
> The rape / non-con is not graphic but it still there. It also happens to a minor. The second case in this story deals with the sexual abuse and murder of minors so please consider yourself warned.
> 
> I am also not a doctor, medical or otherwise, so please if you are, don't read too carefully when it comes to the medical and psychological aspects of this story.
> 
> Many thanks to fanofsuper for the BETA. This story literally took over a year to write. It used to be two stories which I merged into one and there is one bump in the middle where you might notice just that!
> 
> You can also find this story over at LJ - [HERE](http://kuhekabir-fics.livejournal.com/110612.html)

WARNINGS (one more time): **abuse of minors in the second case, rape / non-con, trauma. Nothing too graphic but it still there!**

 

 

Water.

The impact was so sudden, it took his breath away. The deceptively smooth and soft looking surface was actually quite harder than it looked and it hurt upon impact.

A roar, louder than anything he had heard before, echoed through the world above the surface while he struggled valiantly to remember how to swim.

Everything looked the same under water.

Where was up?

Where was down?

Panic slowly overtook him, shutting down his brain until only one emotion remained: annoyance.

He didn’t do panic. Panic was illogical and frankly downright idiotic. There were always choices to be made and someone who panicked was just too lazy to engage his brain and look for possible solutions to the problem.

Which was why it was so vexing for him to be this disoriented in a bloody pool!

His lungs burnt, needing oxygen but thankfully he had enough brainpower left not to attempt to breathe in water.

His struggles continued until he finally broke free, breaching the surface. He inhaled deeply, gasping for air and then…then darkness descended.

~~

“How could you do this? Tell me, Sherlock, how could you do this?”

The question wasn’t quite directed at him, Sherlock knew this much because the intonation of voice was more repetitive than question-like. As if John had been asking the same thing over and over again and had given up on actually getting any answer.

“Hm…” Sherlock hummed, feeling the need to make some sort of noise while his brain slowly geared up.

Was he asleep?

No, the noises were all wrong.

Besides, he usually fell asleep on the sofa and rarely in a bed and he was clearly in a bed now. And if he had fallen asleep in his own bed, by some sort of miracle, then why would John be there? He never set a foot inside Sherlock’s bedroom, citing fears of all sorts of hazards he might encounter.

The man might have a point, Sherlock thought. He wouldn’t admit this out loud but it might be better if only he navigated the mess that was his room.

Coordinated mess; everything had its place but to an outsider he could understand how the patterns weren’t obvious.

“Sherlock?” the edge to John’s voice was odd.

Sherlock blinked, slowly opening his eyes as he tried to gather more information on his surroundings.

There were more senses at his disposal than his eyes. Ears were pretty good at picking up usual patterns, giving away at least some basic facts about a place without him actually needing to see it.

Touch was yet another sense which was important and he had already determined that he was in a bed, contrary to his usual habits.

The room was too silent too. No passing cars and instead of hearing Mrs. Hudson puttering about in the flat below, he could hear rhythmic beeping and people passing by in a nearby hallway.

How embarrassing!

He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly against the bright light. His eyes must still be sensitive, as if he hadn’t used them in a while.

Looking around the room, noting the horrible beige walls and the monitors next to him, his suspicion got confirmed.

He was in a hospital bed.

Oh…Moriarty. The bomb. The explosion. He landed in the water…this was the last thing he remembered, he had been struggling to get free.

His cheeks flushed because this hadn’t been a good moment for him. Apparently even he wasn’t immune to being overtaken by panic and even though he wanted this not to be true, he would have to take a minute or two to analyse what had happened so he could learn from his mistake and never do it again.

That feeling fear in the sight of danger was a natural human reaction wasn’t something Sherlock was willing to entertain.

“Sherlock!”

John’s voice brought him back and if he could’ve mustered the strength he would’ve shaken his head at himself. Way to go, getting distracted again.

What was wrong with him?

His eyes settled on John, a smile curving at the edges of his lips.

It was good to see him again.

He quickly looked John up and down, searching for any signs of injuries but the man seemed fine. There was a new scar just above his left eyebrow but even though it was new, it already showed signs of being nearly healed.

More time than he had assumed must’ve passed.

The understanding was far from reassuring because how much time had he lost?

He smacked his lips, blinking rapidly while he forced his apparently tired brain to work.

John didn’t look happy. Sure, there were worry lines around his mouth and eyes, marring his usual happy expression but he was also bristling with barely contained anger.

Contrary to what most people thought, John didn’t get loud when he got angry. He might be vocal over minor incidents but when he really got mad? He got deadly quiet and then, well then the man got even.

Most considered Dr. John Watson to be a harmless, nice man who had somehow gotten roped into this dangerous life by Sherlock. Few understood that despite his meek appearances, the doctor had a keen mind and an appetite for danger matching Sherlock’s.

Of course no one was his match when it came to his deductions but he couldn’t have found a better partner and friend if he had tried.

Friend…

Sherlock frowned. This was a new concept.

He had never had friends.

Sure, there had been a few acquaintances at a time or two and contrary to what most people seemed to think, he wasn't a virgin. He wasn’t ruled by his drives but he was human and yes, there were times when he did miss sex.

Thankfully he could fake being charming long enough to satisfy his urges when they rose and thankfully he didn’t need to take partners too often because his work usually brought him a lot more satisfaction than a quick tumble in the sheets. Or an encounter in a back alley.

Right now though, John should be looking worried, concerned even and instead Sherlock got quiet, angry John.

And he was angry with him.

So far this quiet anger had never been directed at him and always employed for him. Sherlock didn’t need protection but he couldn’t quite deny that he had enjoyed the moments when John had felt the need to defend him.

Odd really but he had simply filed those facts away as curious moments and something related to John.

Maybe he should’ve spent a few more moments on those feelings because now he was faced with an irate John and he had no clue why.

He frowned, forehead creasing.

What had he done?

But regardless of how hard he tried, the last thing he remembered was coming up for air in the pool and then there was just nothing.

John couldn’t possibly be this mad at him for falling into the pool?

John leaned forward, eyes blazing. “After all we’ve been through together you had the gall to run off with Moriarty? Were you that bored? Was the thrill worth it?”

Sherlock’s mouth for once actually hung open. He was baffled.

He usually was never taken by surprise.

This though he hadn’t seen coming.

Maybe he hadn’t heard right, he mused. Maybe he had hit his head?

“John…” he tried, his voice strangely not quite up to the task but frankly how was he supposed to arrive at any conclusions when he had no facts?

“Two weeks, Sherlock, you’ve been gone for two weeks, gallivanting about. What did you do?”

“Do?” Sherlock echoed, feeling like an idiot for the first time in his life. Was this what everyone usually felt like when faced with a superior intellect?

John was making no sense. He couldn’t answer any of his questions. He didn’t have enough data. How was he supposed to defend himself when no one told him what had happened?

Clearly he was injured…

He had thought the reason why he was here was because of the blast. Loosing time could have been attributed to maybe serious injuries and an induced coma giving John’s own minor injuries the time to heal.

Clearly though his initial assumptions had been wrong.

Still, two weeks?

He had lost two weeks?

“Did you inject yourself? Were you trying to find a way out?” John’s voice was softer now, almost caring like it should be.

All Sherlock could do was blink.

“You overdosed,” John continued. “You were found in an alley. Was it worth it?”

Sherlock gaped, probably the stupidest expression of his life on his face.

Then without another word, John got up and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

Sherlock simply stared at his friend’s retreating back.

He would never run off with Moriarty. How dare John think something as ridiculous as that?

Not because he had any kind of morals or because Moriarty was evil. He scoffed; he wouldn’t refuse to work with the man for something as silly as that.

No, the reason was a lot simpler than. Frankly Sherlock felt insulted. If he wanted to branch out into crime, he could do so very well on his own. He didn’t need Moriarty to hold his hand and guide him.

His nose scrunched up while fury rose within him.

How dare he?

He might’ve found an equal in Moriarty and yes, he did enjoy their sparring game but if he were to join up with the man then there would be no game to play!

Where would be all the fun?

Dull dull!

Why didn’t John know this?

And besides, the man had threatened John! He had invaded Mrs. Hudson home!

The old lady had been nothing but kind to him and he would never betray her trust and join up with someone who had done that.

He didn’t do attachments, he reminded himself but apparently he did because the more he turned the reasons around in his head why he would never join up with Moriarty despite the somewhat temping offer the more he was forced to realize that the people in his life had made more of an impact on him than he would’ve thought.

Curious.

The fury within settled down, morphing into stabs of hurt.

John should’ve known better.

He sniffed, actually sniffed, before he closed his eyes.

He was tired. Maybe he needed to think about things when he was more rested.

Clearly his brain was still fried and not quite working right.

Maybe this was delusion.

Apparently he wasn’t quite as in tune with things as he had thought if everything had managed to get away from his quickly.

He had some thinking to do.

And before he could get started on that, he fell sleep again, not noticing his brother looking into his room or the doctor quickly checking up on him.

“He’ll be fine in a few days,” the strange doctor reassured Mycroft.

“He’s a former addict. Will there be complications?”

“No,” the doctor answered. “He simply overdosed on his first shot. There were no traces in his blood of a continued use of heroin over the last few weeks and his body already got rid of the drug while he was in a coma.”

“And the head wound?”

“A few weeks old. If he’s managed to run around so far, then there shouldn’t be anything to worry about either. He has no broken bones just some severe bruising but considering the explosion happened two weeks ago, even those are already fading. I want to keep him for observation for a few more days,” he continued, “but physically there is nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you.”

~~

Being poked and prodded for sadistic purposes honestly didn’t make Sherlock’s day. Thankfully after quite a few acerbic comments, he was left alone to stew and think.

Apparently he had received a blow to the head.

The bruising on his body he supposedly sustained during the explosion and of course, the overdose had been administered by himself either with stupidity or with great care to off himself.

Sherlock huffed.

As if he would make such a mistake!

If he wanted to kill himself he would make damn sure he succeeded and if he were back on the drugs, he would know better than to use too much to send him into an early grave.

He might be in a generous mood to make allowances for the nurses and the doctor in charge because they didn’t know him but surely his own brother, despite his faults, would know better.

And John of course.

John should know better!

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s stoic voice shook Sherlock out of his angry thoughts.

He regarded his older brother with mixed feelings. There was no love lost between them, too much sibling rivalry for sure but what Sherlock, to his dismay, had realized, he was still looking for Mycroft’s approval.

He thought he had gotten rid of the useless notion years ago but apparently when it came to his own state of mind he hadn’t been quite as vigilant as he had thought he was.

Mycroft balanced himself on his umbrella of the day, looking every inch the English gentleman.

“You’ll be released in a few days,” his brother slowly said, flicking some imaginary fleck of dust off his coat. “I’ll be taking you home to Mummy then.”

Mycroft nodded, more to himself than to anyone else, while Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

He opened his mouth, about to start protesting he didn’t need looking after, he hadn’t done anything wrong and why was everyone too stupid to see the error of their ways?

Instead he closed his mouth which Mycroft obviously took as a sign of defeat (or agreement) because then he swirled around on his heels, leaving the room with his coat billowing behind him.

Show off, Sherlock thought.

Normally he enjoyed sparring with his brother. Mycroft had a keen intellect and while their rivalry was surely entertaining, Sherlock had always, in his own way, respected Mycroft and what he was capable of.

In many ways they were totally different while at the same time in many other ways they were totally alike.

Being diagnosed as a high functioning sociopath at around fourteen had been both a relief and a disappointment to him.

At first Sherlock had embraced the diagnosis because it had liberated him from many obligations. After all, as a sociopath he couldn’t be held responsible if he said something too crass, focused too much on dissecting dead animals or generally had rather disturbing hobbies. No conscience, right? Nothing holding him back at all…unable to feel friendship, love because these emotions barely registered on a sociopath’s mind. Oh he could mimic them like a perfect predator but he couldn’t _feel_ them.

Contrary to what most people had assumed, including his family, he had never actually killed an animal.

Oh he had been tempted all right but one look at the furry creature with its big eyes and he hadn’t been able to go through with it.

The discovery that he did have a conscience, maybe not as fully developed as was expected but he definitely wasn’t completely devoid of one, had thrown his self image for a loop.

Turned his life upside down, yes the phrase did apply.

He still didn’t care for most people because they were stupid. He could make allowances for those who really were mentally afflicted because they couldn’t help themselves but most people simply couldn’t be bothered to use their brain and this wasn’t something Sherlock could tolerate easily.

In the end he had allowed other people to continue with their misconception about him because it was easier for him to further his studies without having to explain himself.

Besides, he wouldn’t deny it if someone accused him of getting a kick out of playing up his antisocial tendencies. People were really funny sometimes.

But him inserting himself with the police, solving crimes should’ve been a give away of some sort to any who were looking, right?

He could’ve just as well solved puzzles and found ways to entertain himself by planning the perfect crimes, right? He didn’t have to take the roundabout way to get his kicks…seriously, maybe he should rethink everything.

After all, if even those closest to him expected him to join the other team, then he might just as well go ahead and do it!

The sparring matches with Moriarty would definitely be worth it!

Sherlock pulled the IV out of his arm, ignoring the sharp sting as the needle was forcefully removed.

If Mycroft thought he would allow him to ship him home so they could all stare at him with sad eyes then he was mistaken.

And he was fine; he didn’t need to wait for them to release him. They were only keeping him now for observation on Mycroft’s behest, he had gleaned that much, so he might just as well discharge himself and move on with his life.

He got rid of the atrocious hospital gown, grabbing the overnight bag someone, probably John, had left for him in the closet and then he quickly dressed.

When he was done he found a nurse, told her he was leaving and ignoring her spluttered protests, he walked out.

They couldn’t keep him here against his will. The mandatory time for possible suicide candidates had past and despite having overdosed on something illegal, Mycroft had managed for him not to get charged.

He should probably be thankful for his brother intervening but right now he couldn’t muster up such a foreign feeling. After all, Mycroft hadn’t really done any of this to help him but to help himself and to keep his precious name out of any unwanted press.

A typical cloudy day greeted him once he strolled out the front door and moments later, he was strolling down the streets, blending in.

What should he do now?

~~

Hunger wasn’t something that usually registered in his mind. Besides, there was no way he could actually be hungry right this moment because they had more or less force fed him horrible stuff at the hospital.

It was his educated opinion that every effort possible was put into making hospitals as bland as humanly possible, persuading people to flee at their earliest convenience. Why else would someone manage to totally overcook vegetables, make a slab of meat taste like a shoe and produce scarily alive looking deserts.

Anyway, the gnawing pain in his stomach couldn’t be hunger because usually he was able to go without food for much longer periods of time.

The occasional flutters of stabbing pains coming from his heart weren’t alarming either because nothing was physically wrong with him. For the first time in his life, Sherlock actually felt hurt.

He snorted; yes, the sentiment alone was enough to make him want to bash his head in but John turning his back on him had hurt in more ways than one.

As a rule he usually never let people in. Why bother anyway? People were usually stupid and didn’t understand his work anyway so he was better off with getting rid of them straight away.

Lestrade tolerated him because he got him results, maybe he even respected him to some degree but John had been the only one who he had let come real close.

Granted, up until John had accused him of actually siding with Moriarty of all people and proceeding to attempt to kill himself (and botching up the attempt!) he hadn’t quite realized how far John had wormed himself into Sherlock’s, em…, _heart_.

He was still upset with his older brother for drawing the wrong conclusions but Mycroft had often puzzled him so he was able to write this current failure off much easier.

John though?

John was a different story.

And this was why instead of heading home he was strolling around London like some kind of lost lamb, trying to figure out where to go from here. Trying to figure what had actually happened to him.

Oh he wasn’t about to explain himself.

He was done cutting John some slack. If the man, his supposed friend and partner, hadn’t realized what kind of person Sherlock was then he wasn’t going to waste his breath educating the stupid man.

John had made his position clear and Sherlock wasn’t someone who easily forgave. Especially not on something as fundamental as this.

No, he couldn’t go back home but contrary to what his stubborn mind wanted to believe, he also couldn’t stroll around London indefinitely.

And while he was apt at ignoring his body’s needs when he had work to do, he found it quite hard to block out his pain at the moment.

Maybe because everyone was different. Blacking out with one world view in place and waking up to everything turned upside was disconcerting, even to someone with his intellect.

And he clearly wasn’t at his best because he never noticed the dark shadow following him into the pedestrian tunnel and he didn’t saw the glimmering blade until it was almost too late.

##

Standing outside in the rain, watching people streaming in and out of a pub was a nuisance.

The loud noise though wasn’t good for his head and he didn’t have enough cash anyway to entertain the idea of nursing a pint until his prey showed up.

He snorted, cradling his side, pushing his hands, and the fabric, down. The blood flow might’ve stopped, it was quite hard to tell.

His shirt was black and while the fabric was quiet wet, obviously soaked through with his blood, he hadn’t dared listing the shirt off the wound because keeping the pressure on to stop the blood flow was much more important right now.

Of course any sane person would’ve reported the attack or at least gotten himself to the nearest emergency room but while many things applied to Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, he could honestly say he had never been accused of having a lick of sense.

Since he considered most people to be beyond saving anyway, he had never paid much head to those kinds of statements.

And frankly, being called a _freak_ was a compliment because it set him apart from all the other sheep currently grazing about.

What did he care about other people anyway?

He hissed when he pressed down a little bit too hard on his knife wound but his eyes never wavered from the door.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the man he had been waiting for finally walked around a corner and entered the pub.

Sherlock straightened up and brushed some strands of dark hair out of his face before he more or less stumbled across the street.

Once inside he had to blink a few times to adjust to the light before quickly scanning the room, looking for the familiar face.

There, by the counter, ordering a pint.

He managed to avoid bumping into anyone and thankfully there was ample space next to Lestrade, allowing him to casually lean against the counter as if nothing was wrong.

“Lestrade,” he greeted, watching with amusement as the man spewed beer onto the table.

He put his glass down, lifting his head to stare at Sherlock. His glare though was mellowed with an emotion Sherlock couldn’t define so he shrugged it off.

“Sherlock!” the man exclaimed, fully turning his body so he was now facing the detective. “I didn’t know you had been released…”

“Hm…” Sherlock chose not to answer, instead he ploughed along with his own question.

It might sound childlike but considering recent events, he thought it best to ask. If the answer was no or if there was any trace of discomfort on the man’s face then Sherlock would walk back out and see about consulting his homeless network. Surely they would put up with him for a while, at least until he got a few things sorted out.

“Would you consider me to be a friend?”

Lestrade veered back a bit, almost as if he had been slapped. The question had clearly taken him by surprise but he never flinched under Sherlock’s keen, scrutinizing gaze.

“Yes,” he slowly answered, “you might be difficult and generally a nuisance but you’ve done good work…”

Clearly work was important to Lestrade; something he and Sherlock could agree on.

“I would say we’re friends…” he answered after a few more moments.

“Excellent,” Sherlock managed to muster some enthusiasm. His skills might not be completely rusty because he had been quite certain Lestrade would think of him this way. Considering though his recent mistakes, no one could fault him for being a bit shaken up.

“You weren’t actually released, were you?” Lestrade narrowed his eyes while Sherlock shrugged.

“There was no reason for me to stay…”

“What about John? And your brother?”

“Why should they matter?” Sherlock bit back, not quite managing to keep the hurt out of his voice and maybe the world had definitely changed rotation because something akin to understanding flickered across the other man’s face.

“Alright,” Lestrade said slowly, eyeing Sherlock almost warily, “Why don’t we continue this conversation in my flat? It’s just around the corner…and call me Greg.”

Sherlock nodded, stiffly extracting himself form the chair. His knees gave out but he quickly grabbed the counter, stopping himself from face planting onto the floor.

“What’s wrong with you?” Greg reached for him and Sherlock wasn’t in time to move away from him.

Pain exploded through his body when Greg skilfully grabbed him at his side, squeezing his wound, nearly causing the world to fade away. The world though hadn’t countered on Sherlock being this stubborn because he bit his lower lip nearly bloody but he succeeded. He won! He didn’t pass out.

“What happened to you?” Greg hissed, grabbing him more gently this time, raising his shirt to peak underneath it and coming away with a pale face. “You need to go to the emergency…” he started but Sherlock interrupted him. “No,” he said forcefully, “I can take care of it. It’s just a scratch.”

Greg clearly wanted to argue but for once he didn’t bother, merely nodding his agreement.

“Come on then,” he said, ignoring Sherlock’s protests as he weaved his arm around the taller man, helping him walk in a straight line and escorted him out of the pub.

“How did you know where to find me anyway?” Greg was making conversation, trying to distract Sherlock from the sudden weakness in his body and while he resented the fact he needed to be coddled, Sherlock also appreciated it.

“After work you always stop here for a pint to unwind. Then you go home, watch TV for about an hour and then go to bed.”

“You followed me?”

Sherlock managed a casual shrug. “Good thing I did. Otherwise how would I’ve known how to find you now?”

He could tell Greg wasn’t happy with him but thankfully the man didn’t force the issue. If people like Greg didn’t want to be followed, then maybe they shouldn’t stick to their patterns like glue?

The old townhouse where Greg was renting the ground floor flat wasn’t far away and it didn’t take the men long to get there.

Once Sherlock was inside, he quickly scanned the room, cataloguing everything he saw before stumbling towards the sofa. He lifted his shirt over his head, hissing as some of the dried blood got torn along with it but there wasn’t anything to be done about.

“Here,” Greg materialized next to him. “Let me handle this.”

He actually forced Sherlock to lean back and while he grumbled, he quickly got to work. His first aid kit was well stocked and it didn’t take long at all to clean the wound.

 

“I think it might need stitches…”

“Do you have what I need?”

“Do you honestly want to stitch yourself up?” Greg’s voice rose an octave and honestly what was the problem? Sticking up a wound wasn’t any different from needlework and while Sherlock couldn’t confess to actually ever having done any _needlework_ , he was quite proficient with a needle and thread.

And honestly, if there was a scar in the end, who cared?

“For the record, I don’t like this,” Greg grumbled but when Sherlock held out his hand, he shoved it away.

He got up, walking towards the cabinet, coming back with a bottle.

“Here, drink this…” he ordered before pushing Sherlock back onto his back and getting ready to stitch up the wound.

“I can…”

“No,” Greg said sharply. “You’re not steady at the moment. You aren’t perfect you know. And right now you’re definitely not up to holding a needle. So I’ll do this for you and you’ll be quiet.”

“Bossy,” Sherlock commented dryly but he didn’t object any further, taking a deep swig from the bottle.

He usually didn’t indulge in alcohol, never having seen the benefits of it which considering he was a reformed junkie might sound odd but then maybe it wasn’t since his choice of oblivion had been a lot more potent than a drink.

The liquid burnt through his stomach causing him to cough. He used the back of his hand to wipe away some spit, allowing his eyes to fall shut. He wasn’t squeamish, he could very well watch Greg stitch him up but the man did look a little bit green around the gills and if he stared at him…well, Sherlock might not mind having a scar but he also didn’t want to be accidentally stabbed with a needle.

Once per day was enough, thank you very much.

“So what happened?”

Ah, yet another distraction technique but this time Sherlock complied because the distraction wasn’t so much aimed at him but at Greg himself.

“I was walking down an underpass when suddenly there was someone behind me. I didn’t hear him until the last minute and I guess I was lucky. I turned just in time so instead of getting the knife lodged into my back, it merely grazed me.”

“And then what…?”

“He ran off.”

“What did he look like?”

Usually a question like that wouldn’t have been a problem for him but he had already established he wasn’t quite firing on all cylinders today so he needed to take a moment to think before answering.

“It was dark,” he slowly said, casting his mind back, “he was a head shorter than me. Built like a fighter, like a boxer. The shirt was dark, probably black or dark blue. The jeans were faded with holes in them. The holes weren’t for show but signs of age. The shoes were combat boots and from the way he moved, he didn’t regret stabbing me at all. He was smart enough not to linger because I could hear footsteps coming from the other direction. He also kept his head down. His hoodie was up so I only got a brief look. Hawk-like nose, split lip and either a huge birth mark on his right cheek or a bruise.”

“You didn’t get a good look…?” Greg’s voice was baffled while Sherlock huffed.

“Of course not,” he said with dignity. “I should’ve been able to give you are more detailed description but this is all I have.”

“Of course,” Greg mumbled, shaking his head slightly. “There, all done.” He said, packing up and storing the first aid kit away again.

Sherlock relaxed a bit, trying to ignore the throbbing in his side.

“Do you want any pain meds?”

The answer to that question was a resounding _yes_ but he still shook his head.

He might not have actually injected himself with an overdose but the need was still humming through his body, reminding him of the glory days he had left behind and there was a real danger if he took anything now to numb the pain he might want more and more and then, well, the slope was a steep one and he couldn’t afford to add anything more to his troubles.

“Then have more to drink…and give me the rest. I have a feeling I’m going to need it,” Greg said sarcastically, waiting until Sherlock had taken yet another deep sip before cradling the bottle like some long lost baby, slumping into the easy chair across from Sherlock.

“So why are you here?”

“The long or the short answer?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock nodded, momentarily tongue tied. He wasn’t use to explaining himself but of course he would have to do exactly that now.

“I…” he swallowed hard, pursing his lips for a moment before he continued. “The last thing I remember is the explosion. I was caught under water and when I finally managed to break free, well,” his voice trailed off, “that’s it. I remember gasping for air and then there’s nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock repeated. “Next thing I know I wake up in the hospital with John accusing me of siding with Moriarty and then proceeding to tell me I actually managed to be stupid enough to almost kill myself. Seriously!” the amount of affront in Sherlock’s voice couldn’t be faked and after a startled moment Greg actually smiled.

“This isn’t funny!” Sherlock complained while the man shook his head.

“Of course not,” he quickly reassured the slightly distressed Sherlock, “but you got to admit, you being upset because John accused you of failing to kill yourself is a little bit funny.”

Sherlock didn’t see the humour on it so he settled for looking mutinous and folding his arms across his chest.

“Of course I cannot tell you what I did in the last two weeks but since I had no intention of siding with Moriarty prior to getting blown up, I don’t think I would’ve changed my mind that quickly. And even if I had decided to switch sides, why would I need a partner?” his voice was rising slowly while he got more and more agitated. “If I wanted to create the perfect crime, something which might actually be worthwhile to think about, I could do it myself! I don’t need Moriarty to hold my hand! And with so many puzzles and games in my life, why would I need to fall back on drugs?”

“Because you’re bored?”

“I could always just go and shoot people,” Sherlock grumbled, pouting slightly. “It makes no sense for anyone to assume I would side with Moriarty, then try to kill myself and be this incompetent about it!”

Greg had the audacity to chuckle again.

“Oh don’t look so affronted,” he quickly tried to reassure Sherlock again who resembled more an offended feline right now than a human. “Frankly I did entertain the idea of you changing sides because you can’t honestly say you have never thought about it.”

Sherlock huffed but he didn’t deny the statement.

“You updated your website saying you were taking a leave of absence, pursuing a different career choice for the foreseeable future…”

“As if I would be that obvious!” the rage was back. He shot upright on the sofa, ignoring his protesting side.

“It did strike me as odd,” Greg admitted, “but everyone else seemed convinced.”

“Stupid people, I’m surrounded by stupid people,” Sherlock muttered.

“This is news to you?” Greg asked cheekily, which had Sherlock nearly reeling backwards, once again taken by surprise.

“What nearly convinced me though was the text you sent to John saying goodbye, telling him not expect you to come back.”

“I wouldn’t…”

“Yes, you would,” Greg interrupted. “If you truly had decide to take Moriarty up on his offer, you would’ve taken the time to let your partner know.”

Sherlock grumbled but yes, for once he couldn’t fault Greg’s logic.

“When you were brought into the hospital with an overdose, I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t impossible, mind you, but it did strike me as odd. Still, I decided not to ask you any questions until you were released. Your brother and John were doing enough hovering anyway.”

“You were willing to wait for me to explain myself? To ask me if I was guilty?”

“I guess so…”

“And will you take my word for it?” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper, and for some reason he was holding his breath, anxious to hear Greg’s answer.

“You’ve never lied to me, Sherlock.” Greg’s voice was gentle, almost careful as if he was afraid he would spook Sherlock if he used any more force. “You might be crass and rude but you’ve always spoken your mind. If you had changed sides and if I had asked you to your face, you wouldn’t have denied it. You might have given me the run around but you wouldn’t have lied. You don’t consider lying worth your time.”

“I didn’t do it,” the words were out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop himself. “I don’t know what happened, I don’t know why I can’t remember the last two weeks but there is no doubt on my mind at all. I didn’t join Moriarty and I didn’t try to kill myself.”

“I believe you.”

And suddenly the world wasn’t so gloomy anymore.

Go figure.

##

“What do you think happened?”

Sherlock considered the question because frankly he had been asking himself the very same question over and over again since he had woken up.

For him not to have any recollection at all of the last two weeks, he could come up with only one reason: he hadn’t been awake or at least conscious enough to be aware of his surroundings.

This could easily be achieved with drugs and having him overdose would have been a perfect cover.

Then again, why bother?

“Considering the time line, the only suspect is Moriarty.”

Greg nodded.

“I received a blow to the head,” Sherlock continued, instinctively raising his hand to rub at the sore spot. “and while my recollection isn’t perfect, I am pretty certain I managed to get to the edge of the pool. I clearly recall gasping for breath, holding on to something and then…then nothing.”

“So you made it out of the water or to the edge of the pool at least, like you said,” Greg continued the train of thought, startling Sherlock because he hadn’t expected him to do that. “John was probably out for the count.”

“What happened to John?” Sherlock interrupted, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to find out before. Probably because he was so annoyed with John which overshadowed anything else.

“Emergency services were pretty quick to respond,” Greg explained, “The explosion might not have been big, all things considered, but it sure as hell was loud.”

Sherlock nodded, taking the man’s word for it. His ears surely had been ringing at the time but considering how close he was to the blast, he wasn’t in the best position to tell how loud it actually had been.

“John was lying at the edge of the pool, knocked out, bleeding from a cut above his eye.”

“No serious injuries?”

“No,” Greg confirmed, “The blast radius hadn’t been all that large. The shock wave probably sent you into the pool or maybe you jumped, either way, the most damage was done to the floor and nearby walls.”

“So John didn’t witness what happened to me…”

“No.”

Sherlock nodded; he had already concluded this much since John had accused him of acting like an idiot. Still, it was good to have actual confirmation.

“The blow to the head,” Sherlock continued where he had left off before. “I don’t remember hitting a wall on my way into the pool so I think Moriarty or one of his goons must’ve hit me over the head, knocking me out.”

“Then what?” Greg was actually leaning forward, listening intently like a child hearing his favourite bedtime story.

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip.

“Drugs can keep a person under for quite some time, maybe I wasn’t completely out but kept sedated enough for me to recall what was happening.”

“Wouldn’t you at least have some recollection then?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I received a blow to the head. The fact alone might scramble my brain for a bit. Maybe I do remember and I am blocking it out…”

The last bit was said with venom because there was nothing more pitiful to Sherlock than doing something as silly as blocking out important data.

He had to admit, even though he wouldn’t consider what had happened as traumatic, his definition of the word usually wasn’t the same as ordinary people. So maybe his senses had taken a leave of absence.

The only hard fact remaining was he didn’t recall what happened.

“If abducting you was the goal, why then try to kill you?”

“How was I found?”

Greg seemed startled for a moment before he seemed to think about the question before answering, “There was a tip…”

“Aha!” Sherlock said triumphantly, “They didn’t want me dead after all…”

“Sherlock…”

“No, no,” Sherlock insisted, shaking his head. “If they wanted me dead, they could’ve shot me or just left me somewhere until I died from exposure. They kept me alive, fed me probably through an IV and then went through all the trouble of giving me an overdose and reporting it.”

He shook his head again. “No, seeing me dead wasn’t the goal.”

“Then what?”

Sherlock frowned, thinking about it. “Moriarty invited me along but he also said he wanted to burn out my heart.”

“What does that mean?”

“Who knows,” Sherlock admitted, “But this might be him playing a game.”

“By alienating you from your friends and family.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it,” Greg insisted, “John was so worried about you and you showed up with an overdose he simply went mad.”

“Worried, right…” Sherlock snorted. If he had been worried why did he act like an imbecile and then ignore Sherlock? After the brief encounter when he had woken up, John hadn’t come back to visit and if this was John being mad while worrying…

“He’s pushed John away…and your brother…am I right in saying he usually keeps a close eye on you?”

Sherlock nodded, considering Greg’s words. In truth he had thought along the same lines before. Nothing else made sense but frankly he still didn’t quite understand what Moriarty wanted to achieve.

Sure, he had lost a friend, he would probably have to look for a new flatmate unless John wanted to stay then maybe he would need to find a new flat…either way his partner was lost to him now.

And while he doubted Mycroft would actually pull surveillance off him, quite the contrary as a matter of fact, his brother might find other ways of slowing him down, straining their relationship even further.

It was an odd plan, something Sherlock wouldn’t have considered head on but if he eliminated everything else, it was the only logical explanation left.

“But why attack me then?”

“Maybe those events aren’t related?”

Sherlock snorted, “What are the chances of after everything of a random stranger walking up to me and knifing me for the fun of it? This wasn’t some sort of botched mugging. No, he wanted me dead.”

“Maybe Moriarty decided you weren’t reacting the way he wanted and that you were too dangerous to leave alive?” Greg offered.

“Maybe,” Sherlock considered.

The so called plan didn’t quite make sense to a rational mind but while Moriarty undoubtedly was brilliant he was also quite mad. A brilliant mind was so much more likely to fall into madness than an average one and some times there was a really fine line between brilliance and out of control.

If he factored this in, it might just be possible for Moriarty to quickly abort a plan, changing the game that in itself was a sort of an advantage because it made him unpredictable but in the long run, if Sherlock managed to keep up, he would win out because eventually his madness would lead Moriarty to make a mistake.

Still, and he didn’t much like the doubt creeping in, he wasn’t so sure he could keep up with actual madness. His mind worked on logic and if there was no logic to be found he was kind of left floundering.

“Well,” Greg startled him by clapping his hands once. “I don’t think we’ll get any further tonight. You’re welcome to stay…”

“For how long?”

Greg blinked before snorting. “For as long as you like. I can pull out the sofa, so you’re more comfortable…”

Sherlock nodded, getting up.

“If you plan on staying longer, there’s a shop around the corner where you can get some more clothes and toiletries.”

“Hm…” Sherlock hummed, ducking his head. “I don’t want Mycroft or John to find me too soon…and I don’t have any more cash.”

Greg sighed, “I’ll get you some cash then. I know you’re good for it. But do you really think you can fool your brother?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “There wasn’t any surveillance at the hospital. Clearly he wasn’t expecting me to simply leave even though considering my dislike for hospitals he should’ve expected this. I took great care in finding as many blind spots as I could, evading the CCTV cameras, making it more difficult for him to trace my steps.”

“But surely he will come looking for you here at some point…”

“Will he?” Sherlock countered. “We haven’t met socially before. You only call me when you need my help. It is a lot more logical for them to assume I have slinked back to Moriarty or contacted any other of my contacts in the city.” Sherlock sighed, taking a step back as Greg worked to pull out the sofa, dumping a few pillows on one end for Sherlock to use. “He will come looking eventually but we should have some peace for at least the next twenty four hours.”

“Just so we’re clear,” Greg added, leaving a blanket on top of the sofa. “You can stay here for as long as you like but if someone asks me directly where you are, I won’t lie.”

“Fine,” Sherlock hadn’t really expected anything else. “Will you call me if you get anything interesting?”

“On what phone?”

“Oh,” Sherlock blinked, a weight suddenly materializing in the pit of his stomach, dragging him under. He had no phone! The world was about to end! And he hadn’t even noticed!

Laughter had him blushing while glaring at Greg.

“I’ll get you a new phone too,” the man continued laughing as he headed out of the room.

##

Waking up slowly, without any need coursing through his body, without anything paramount on his mind, was strange and unsettling.

Sherlock blinked, trying to adjust to the new world around him, wondering briefly what was going on before his memories rose up, nipping him in the butt.

“Oh,” he mumbled, stretching languidly before a sharp sting in his side reminded him that this probably wasn’t a good idea.

His hand involuntary came to rest on his wound, gently cradling it while he moved into an upright position.

Silence greeted him. There was no one else about.

Greg must’ve gone to work and how the hell had Sherlock managed to sleep through another person running around that close to him?

He was a light sleeper; maybe because he rarely drank and even though he would never admit it out loud, yesterday had been quite trying.

What with waking up in the hospital, John’s and Mycroft’s betrayal, then him getting stabbed and being taking in by the last person he had ever expected to actually do him a favour.

It galled him to think that when it came to his personal life, his famous skills might’ve been remiss. He straightened up; well, alright. Even he was known to make a mistake or two. Time to move on.

His shoulders slumped. Time to move on to _what_?

There was a new phone on the table that he quickly pocketed.

Last night, before everything, Greg had been kind enough to lend him some dry clothes because his had gotten soaked.

There was some cash on the table too which Sherlock quickly took, making a note of how much he would owe his friend.

Why should he purchase new clothes when his own were perfectly fine?

He chewed on his lower lip, thinking.

He couldn’t just stroll into his flat without caution because Mycroft had been careless once, he most certainly wasn’t going to let him slip away a second time.

He was on borrowed time anyway because sooner or later his brother would trace him to Lestrade’s.

But he didn’t have to make life easy for him, right?

He eyed his pocket where the cash had disappeared into. He was never one to dress too casually but maybe if he were to purchase clothes he would normally never wear, it would be enough to distract anyone from spotting him.

Surveillance was a tedious job. Usually people, even the best, tended to look for some common aspect of the subject and frankly, Sherlock’s way of dressing would be one thing they would be on the look out for.

He quickly got up, straightening his clothes, grabbing the extra key Greg had also left behind and after he pocketed it, he quickly headed outside.

A chill hung in the air but he barely noticed. He found the clothing store right where Greg had said it would be and after dithering for a few minutes, he selected a pair of boots, pale blue jeans, a dark long sleeved shirt and a dark blue hoodie.

He tried them on, just to be sure, and then he tore of the tags, wearing the clothes when he had to pay for them.

A little fight ensued with the lady at the till but Sherlock got his way in the end.

After dropping his still slightly damp clothes off at Greg’s, he headed for the nearest tube station.

He didn’t have enough money for a cab but even if he did, he would’ve chosen public transport anyway because it was yet another way for him to break with his habits.

He casually strolled down the street towards his flat, hoodie flung over his head because it had started drizzling. Why the weather was being oddly cooperative was puzzling but he wasn’t about to complain when he was being dealt a favourable hand.

When Baker Street came up he bypassed it, choosing the little alley at the back of the house instead. He carefully looked around, spotting a new camera straight away. He made sure to innocently always have his face turned away while he strolled towards Mrs. Hudson’s house.

The lower floor flats were usually hard to rent because they were damp and generally quite dark. Hardly anyone wanted to live in such circumstances and Sherlock was banking on this when he pretended to produce a key while skilfully picking the lock to the house next door to his home.

Mrs. Hudson had updated her own locks years ago and if she hadn’t agreed, Mycroft would’ve stepped in and done it anyway because he wouldn’t stand by and allow his younger brother to live in a place which wasn’t secure.

His tongue was poking out as he finally managed to open the door, slinking through it like a black cat.

The huge stone wall obscured the camera’s view but then again, it wasn’t necessary for Mycroft’s men to keep an eye on the small backyard because they were already looking at the street.

Their oversight was irritating on sheer principle but once again, Sherlock found it amusing to be able to benefit form people not using their brains. Why the hell did they have them in the first place?

Getting over the small fence was a hardship because of course he had managed to forget about his injury but thankfully, despite hurting like a bitch, he didn’t tear any stitches apart.

Once he was finally in Mrs. Hudson backyard, it only took a few seconds to produce his key and gain entry through the back door.

He raced up the steps to his and John’s flat, pushing the door open. John, as expected, wasn’t home because it was a weekday and he was surely at the surgery dealing with his patients.

He wasn’t avoiding him per se but he also couldn’t deny being glad about not having to face him either.

For a second, even for someone as observant as he was, the wrongness of the place unsettled him.

His eyes trailed over every surface, over every single item until with his mouth hanging open, he turned as white as a ghost.

Everything was neat and tidy. Too tidy, a voice in his head supplied.

He raced towards the fridge, yanking it open. John wouldn’t…he knew how long he had been working on this experiment…surely he wouldn’t just throw it out…he wouldn’t, right?

Green leafy things mixed in with boxes of fruit and meat greeted him.

Maybe John had finally decided to store his food together with his experiments?

Hope honestly sprung eternal and even Sherlock wasn’t immune.

He pushed the offending vegetables aside, poking his head into the fridge but alas, his petri dishes were gone.

“No…” he whispered, eyes wide.

But the facts couldn’t be denied.

John hadn’t just cleaned the flat. He had practically erased Sherlock out of their home and for a moment, feelings warred inside him before he smashed the door shut with so much force it actually rattled and nearly toppled over.

For a moment he was transfixed but then he remembered how to move and with long strides he walked towards his bedroom, pushing the door open.

He breathed a sigh of relief because at least in here, John hadn’t wrecked havoc.

He grabbed a duffel bag, randomly selecting clothes he hoped were clean, stuffing them into his bag. The last item on the list was his computer and when he was done, he zipped up the bag, casually flinging it over his shoulder.

He didn’t pause to stare at his reflection as he passed the mirror but if he had, he probably wouldn’t have recognized himself.

Dressed in loose and yet formfitting jeans, a dark shirt which didn’t quite hide how thin he was and a hoodie, which despite its loose shape, only managed to look flattering on him.

His new outfit made him look years younger and his pale complexion and messy dark hair only enhanced the fact.

He didn’t get far though because apparently John hadn’t gotten the memo about having to be at work.

Footsteps signalled his arrival and for a moment Sherlock sprouted a classic deer caught in the headlights look before he schooled his features into a mask moments before John burst into the living room.

For a moment both men stared at each other and Sherlock revelled in the gob smacked look currently displayed on John’s face.

He ignored his twinging heart, nodding politely to the man before he made to brush past him.

John’s quick and strong grip on his hand stopped him in his tracks and with a sigh, Sherlock yanked his hand free, stepping backwards.

They eyed each other almost warily for a few moments before Sherlock straightened his back, still clinging to the duffel over his shoulder.

“You can have the flat,” he said, keeping his voice as flat and monotone as he could manage.

John only got so far as to open his lips before Sherlock’s phone rang with a rather atrociously chipper song as his ring tone. He scowled, mumbling curses under his breath, vowing to get even by doing something nasty to Greg’s phone the first chance he got.

“Yes?” he barked, not caring if he was rude.

“I’ve got a body for you,” Greg’s voice was carefully contained, telling Sherlock at once that whatever scene his friend was at, it was bad.

“Where?” he asked and once he received the details, he closed the call, promising to be there as quickly as he could.

Since he was discovered now, it would only be a matter of minutes before Mycroft knew he had been here and then only a small leap to where he had been staying. He might just as well use his card and get some cash. No point in trying to blend in any more.

“Was that Lestrade?” John asked. “You’re still helping him out?”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Sherlock shot back.

John blinked and Sherlock could practically see John’s world view rearranging itself inside his head. Any other time this might have been amusing but right now, it surely wasn’t.

Sherlock’s hand rose to rest at his side, as if his mere touch could take away the twinges of pain still shooting through his body. Most of the times he could ignore them but they were always there in the back of his mind.

Never mind about how he more or less felt every rib in his body too…

“Where are you staying? Why are you leaving?”

“You don’t want me here,” Sherlock answered, quite proud of how even his voice still sounded despite the volcano that was coming close to eruption inside him.

He wasn’t someone who was known for being overly emotional but right now everything was sort of sliding towards an edge, and at any moment now, his hold was going to break.

“You cleaned out my petri dishes!” this time Sherlock’s voice had started to rise. “You know how long I have been working on that. How could you simply throw them away?”

John blinked, “I thought you weren’t coming back.” His voice was small but Sherlock didn’t care.

“Of course I was coming back!” he flung at his flatmate, “Why wouldn’t I? You can’t really think much of me, despite you always saying I’m brilliant, if you think I need Moriarty’s assistance or that I am stupid enough not to know how to kill myself!”

Before John could get a word in edgewise, Sherlock continued, voice slightly loosing its heat. “I can’t remember what happened,” he said, “I went from the pool straight to waking up in the hospital…the only one who would even listen to me, take my word for what I was saying, was Greg. You had made up your mind long before I opened my eyes. You and my brother…”

“But the evidence…”

“Screw the evidence!” Sherlock was back to shouting. “I thought you knew me! Obviously I was wrong!”

Then he brushed past John, trampling down the stairs and he was out of the house in a heartbeat leaving a very confused and slightly desperate John behind.

##

After dropping off his clothes at Greg’s, he took the cab to the new crime scene.

As usual, he was greeted with expressions like _freak_ and a few other choice words which didn’t deserve to be repeated.

This time though there were also covert glances mingled in with fear. Well, apparently hooking up with Moriarty was going to be good for something after all, because he quite liked the fear and unease coming his way.

Maybe finally people would keep their distance from him.

“What have you got?” he greeted Greg, striding up to him with his usual grace.

His friend did a little double take when he noticed his new outfit but he didn’t comment on it.

“Freak,” Sally Donovan greeted him, “What are you doing here?”

Before Sherlock could reply, eyeing her critically, noting how her blouse had one button undone and how her cheeks were slightly flushed.

Ah…the naughty little girl!

“He’s with me,” Greg blocked his subordinate, placing a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, ushering him along.

“This isn’t pretty by any standard,” he whispered to him.

“I…”

“Take my word for it. Not pretty at all.”

Sherlock nodded. If Greg saw it fit to repeatedly warn him then maybe he should heed his words and proceed with caution.

Being able to clinically observe was what he did best but sadly he wasn’t quite at his best at the moment.

When he entered the small basement, the heavy scent of blood assaulted his nose. His nostrils flared and he fought the urge to raise a hand to block out the stench.

Walking along the small, dingy hallway towards the room at the end almost seemed as if he was walking towards an execution of sorts because the same sort of atmosphere hung in the air.

Heavy with emotion; pain and misery mixed in with the newer one of outrage and pity.

The artificial light in the room didn’t do the crime scene any kindness.

He quickly catalogued the blood stains on the wall, the dirt on the floor and how far away from the door the body was.

The small body (child, female, probably somewhere between 9 and 10) was lying in a rather odd angle, limbs spread out left and right.

More blood pooled underneath her destroyed body and frankly he had to take a few deep breaths to keep yesterday’s food where it belonged.

He crouched down next to the body, mindful of avoiding the blood.

“She was clearly assaulted,” Anderson’s know it all voice droned from behind him but Sherlock paid him no heed. The man was mistaken, as always.

His fingers hovered over the body, never touching but if someone were to believe in being able to sense things, then this was what it would look like.

His fingers trailed over the body, hovering in the air, moving from her bare legs towards her flat chest until he came to rest over her face.

Tiny cuts were criss crossed all over her body. Her death had been long and drawn out. Whoever had been responsible had enjoyed inflicting as much pain as he could and drawing out the process.

Medical knowledge; at least rudimentary; knowing where to cut to make her bleed but also knowing where not to cut to avoid a premature death.

A quick glance towards her thighs and genital area confirmed what Sherlock had already known. She had suffered greatly but she hadn’t been assaulted.

He rose to his feet, cold eyes trained on Greg because he wasn’t going to give Anderson the credit of addressing him directly. The man didn’t even deserve that much.

“Steady hand, not an ounce of remorse with enough medical knowledge to get her to bleed and keep her from dying quickly. He enjoyed the pain…this wasn’t about her death or any kind of ritual. He simply wanted to hurt someone and he did. No assault, he was not interested in her sexually.”

“He?”

Sherlock nodded, pointing towards a smudge at the edge of the blood pool. “Partial foot print there. Too big for a woman’s and statistics would favour a man for this sort of crime anyway.”

“Anderson,” Greg shouted but the little man was already on his way, taking care of the boot print for evidence.

Sherlock was halfway turned away from the body, his mind already racing ahead when he noticed a little rose tattooed on the child’s neck.

Out of nowhere, the tiny red flower petals rose up in the air, growing until they were all Sherlock could see.

The world fell away, leaving nothing but darkness behind images rose from somewhere with him.

_Screams…_

_Horrible screams…_

_Laughter, mad laughter…nothing sane left…_

_A child crying, a voice nearly too hoarse to make any more sounds but she was still valiantly trying, screaming for Mummy or anyone really at this stage._

_Pain…deep pain inside his chest._

_He couldn’t breathe…_

_Struggles, more pain this time in his head and side…_

_Fog…why was the world coated in fog…?_

Sherlock snapped back into his body with a vengeance, nearly toppling over.

He managed to steady himself at the last possible moment, casting a fleeting, slightly alarmed, glance at the tiny body.

“Sherlock?” Greg’s voice showed concern but Sherlock wasn’t in the mood for any more pity.

Without any further regard he stormed past the men, running out of the house as if hellhounds were snapping at his heels.

He only stopped when he was a few blocks away, leaning against the wall, inhaling the cold air.

What the hell had just happened?

Chapter 5

“Get lost,” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, pushing away from the wall and turning his back to Mycroft.

“Sherlock…”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Sherlock hissed, pausing to turn around for a second to level a glare at his brother.

“Don’t make me take drastic measures, little brother…” Mycroft threatened in his horrible, reasonable voice.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. The tone had always set him on edge because it was reserved for talking to petulant children and not for addressing someone like him. Mycroft might be older but they were both grown ups now, and he deserved to be treated as such.

“You seem troubled…”

“You think?” Sherlock’s voice had an edge to it which he would’ve normally suppressed. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. It would only prove Mycroft right if he were to loose his temper, regardless of how justified it might be.

Deciding he was done with this conversation, he turned his back once more, proceeding to walk away.

“I could easily find a way to make Lestrade’s life difficult, if you don’t start to act reasonably within the next few seconds.”

Sherlock paused. Normally he wouldn’t give two cents about other people and before recent events, John might’ve been the only exception. Now though it would seem Greg had wormed his way into the tiny circle and was taking up roots.

He took another step before faltering. Mycroft was serious, no doubt about it.

“Come on,” Mycroft needled, “Don’t be difficult about this.”

Sherlock rubbed his chin, turned around and stalked back to the car as if he was walking towards a pyre.

“I’ve got a few minutes to spare,” he couldn’t resist in saying before squeezing himself into the car, mindful of his bruises and his injury.

When he was settled with Mycroft sitting opposite him, his brother tapped at the partition and the car took off, destination unknown.

“John called me with an interesting story.”

Sherlock huffed. Of course John and Mycroft would be best buddies, bonding over their lack of intelligence and their inability to actually understand him.

He folded his arms across his chest, looking very much like a petulant child.

“Is it true?”

Sherlock refused to answer.

“Look,” Mycroft continued because if the brothers had one thing in common it was being stubborn. “You can talk to me. I’m your brother.”

“Funny” Sherlock spit out. “I can’t recall you asking me what happened. Instead I woke up to a fait accompli. Why should I justify myself? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Screams echoed through his mind again, gnawing at his memory. He swallowed hard. He would have never participated in something as atrocious as carving up a child. People might think him capable of horrible things and while he had no qualms about keeping severed heads or limbs in his fridge, he wasn’t about to start mutilating people for fun.

There was a difference between being curious, disregarding useless moral restrictions in favour of advancement, and getting off on inflicting pain.

He might not care about people like others would expect someone _normal_ to do but he still lived by his own code and standards.

“You seriously don’t remember what happened to you…” this was no longer a question. Mycroft by now was stating facts.

Sherlock wasn’t holding his breath for his brother to actually come out and admit to having made a mistake but the sentiment was there.

Which was why his world quite literally got turned upside down when Mycroft uttered the following words. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Then the car veered off the road and all Sherlock could do was brace himself as the everything fell sideways.

~~

Pain erupted in Sherlock’s side, stitches were tearing free of his body while nice, colourful bruises were added to his already rather impressive assortment.

Thankfully he had managed to shield his head because he didn’t think he would survive any more damaged brain cells. He was already running on half his usual capacity; any more and he might just as well throw in his towel.

_Mycroft._

He might be irritating and if he wouldn’t have to see the ass for years, he wouldn’t shed a single tear but despite their differences, he didn’t actually want to see him harmed.

“Mycroft?” he wanted to ask but the words tumbling off his lips were more akin to, “M…ft?”

Noises suddenly assaulted his ears. Silence had reigned before and it was a testament to how winded he was, that he hadn’t actually noticed.

He surveyed his surroundings while his slightly shaking hands were fighting with the seat belt. When he was free, he collapsed forward with a not so silent _oomph_.

The car had obviously been forced off the road and flipped sideways in the process. The access which had been to his right was totally blocked because the door was pressed into concrete, so if he wanted to get out he would have to crawl up and climb up the other end.

He sniffed. Did he smell petrol?

Contrary to popular belief, cars didn’t almost spontaneously burst into flames but he also didn’t want to linger for too long because he doubted this had been an accident.

He could hear sirens roaring in the background so some bystander had probably already called it in.

Still, sitting on his ass, waiting for help arrive would be a dumb move and he wasn’t stupid, right?

He pushed the throbbing in his body to the back of his mind. Nothing could be done about it anyway. His shirt was wet, blood soaking through the bandage and the fabric and who was to say he hadn’t cut himself on something else too?

“Mycroft?” this time the words actually formed and he wondered why it was so dark in here. Sure, the limousine had come with tinted windows but why was he barely able to make out any contours at all?

Panic rose on swift wings because if there was something wrong with his eyes, how was he supposed to go about his business? His work? His experiments?

Like before, he shoved the grabby hands of the unwanted emotion to the recesses of his mind.

Priorities…

Mycroft still hadn’t made a sound so using both hands and feet he crawled, stumbled, fell towards where Mycroft had been before the car had toppled over.

Warm…soft…his fingers came in touch with what was probably an arm and he quickly held on to it.

Then he forced his legs to cooperate until he was somewhat standing. With one hand he still clung to Mycroft while with the other one he fought with the door handle.

When it finally gave way, he pushed it outwards with all his strength.

People usually weren’t kind but they were nosy.

Why was no one here yet, attempting to disguise being curious while trying to help him?

Before he could finish the thought, hands appeared out of nowhere, latching onto him, heaving him out of the car.

He more fell than crawled out, loosing his hold on Mycroft in the process.

The light was better out here but considering it had been daylight when he had entered the car, the world was still far too dark.

He stumbled a few steps away from the car, still following the momentum from being hauled out of the car before finally coming to stop by falling on his hands and knees.

He blinked, trying to clear his sight and while he could still see, everything appeared to be as if someone had turned off the light.

He turned his head, words forming on his lips but he didn’t get any further when the face strolling towards him crystallized into view.

_Moriarty._

“You’re a hard man to kill, Sherlock,” he said conversationally but while Sherlock might be interested in learning why Moriarty had changed from _wanting to recruit him_ to actually _killing him_ , now wasn’t the time for idle chit chat.

If the man had one weakness then it was hearing himself talk, gloating about how smart he actually was.

Which was why Sherlock didn’t waste a single moment.

He propelled himself off his feet, practically launching himself at the other man like a primed missile. Their bodies impacted, causing Moriarty to flail and to fall backwards and when they went down, Sherlock ensured he stayed on top, straddling the man.

 

Not one to be squeamish about violence when it was called for, he reached for Moriarty’s head but before he could grab it and pound the skull into the hard concrete until it shattered, he was flung backwards.

He angled his body to the side, trying desperately to steer his fall but when he crumbled to the ground, he nearly blacked out for good.

So not good.

A shot rang out, loud and clear, breaking through the noises around, putting everything else to shame.

Sherlock’s whole body was tense, waiting for the impact. When no bullet wound entered his body, he waited for punches but neither predication came true.

He shifted, a groan escaping his lips but try as he might, his body refused to do more than twitch pathetically.

“Don’t move,” John’s voice drifted through the fog that was his mind. “Help is on the way.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock managed to squeeze out and received a reassuring pat on the shoulder as his answer.

John would take care of things.

Alright then, he was ready to pass out now.

##

A way too familiar beeping greeted him when Sherlock slowly started to wake up.

This time though he wasn’t as disoriented as he had been the last time, so he was already aware of being in a hospital room when his eyes slowly fluttered open.

_Déjà vu._

John was sitting on a chair by his side with his head in his hands, the picture of misery.

Sherlock wet his lips, clearing his throat.

John’s head whipped up, staring hopefully at him.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock croaked out.

“He’s fine,” John hastily informed him. “He received a blow to the head which knocked him out but the concussion is only a mild one.”

Sherlock blinked instead of nodding.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were attacked?” John accused, annoyance creeping into his tone.

John’s bedside manner clearly needed improving and they said Sherlock was the insensitive one! Even he knew that it was common courtesy not to start shouting at the injured party.

Still stuck on one word questions, Sherlock moved on to the next topic on his mind. “Moriarty?”

“Dead,” John quickly said without any remorse. “I was following Mycroft,” John explained. “I wanted to talk to you without you giving me the slip. I shot him in the head. No chance of him coming back from the dead, I guarantee it.”

Sherlock couldn’t decide if he was relieved or unhappy.

On one hand, he had enjoy sparring with Moriarty, on the other hand, the man’s antics had stopped being impressive and changed into utter lunacy.

There was no skill in matching minds with a lunatic; they didn’t follow any logical patterns. There was no game to be had; just chaos.

Would he ever learn why Moriarty had changed his mind? Probably not.

He could postulate of course but he didn’t have enough data to make a real assessment.

Oh well, he thought, this once he would be able to let this go. Enough was enough after all.

There was still the case of the dead girl.

He frowned, hid head was suddenly aching as if someone had dropped a sledgehammer onto his skull and just before the pain became unbearable, it vanished as if someone had pulled a plug.

Memories flooded back in, neatly sorting themselves into rows until he was able to retrieve the information he was looking for.

“Call Lestrade,” Sherlock said, “I know who killed the girl.”

“What girl?”

“Just call him,” Sherlock ordered before closing his eyes, signalling he was done.

If he knew John at all, then he was waiting for an opportune moment to talk about what had happened, probably bare some feelings and then apologize.

He wasn’t ready yet to hear any such drivel.

He didn’t doubt that John, and Mycroft too, were sorry. John’s body posture practically screamed _forgive me_ but while Sherlock, in a benign moment, might risk his brainpower by understanding why they had acted the way they did, he would never truly be able to forgive them.

No amount of words could erase a simple fact that despite their supposed knowledge of him, they apparently didn’t know him at all. And worse, they didn’t trust him.

Of all people, John should’ve known him better. Maybe trust wasn’t the key word here. But John should have had faith in his abilities, knowing if Sherlock wanted to end his life, he would do it and _succeed_! And the offence of needing Moriarty’s help, of needing a partner, should he embrace the other side of the law…well, he wasn’t going to get over that insult any time soon.

~~

As usual they didn’t keep him for long because Sherlock didn’t leave them any choice.

This time he had received proper stitches, prescribed medication which he had every intention of ignoring despite John’s insistence he take them.

Well, maybe he would.

Mycroft of course, despite always huffing when Sherlock discharged himself, had done exactly the same thing.

No words had been exchanged but Sherlock knew Mycroft would be insufferable until he had found a way to make it up to him.

He didn’t need to of course because Sherlock hadn’t expected anything from his brother anyway but despite everything, Mycroft still insisted he was only looking out for him, like a big brother should.

Days passed until Greg came through, making an arrest. Sherlock had spent the afternoon at the station giving his testimony.

Hopefully Mycroft would find a way to get him out of having to actually testify because enough evidence had been uncovered, that his eyewitness statement wasn’t actually needed.

Besides, he had been drugged at the time anyway. It could be argued, he would actually do a lot more damage than good.

Of course this was nothing but utter rubbish because even while drugged his brain was working better than most people’s but of course he would only give himself an aneurysm if he tried to argue sense.

About a week had passed since Moriarty’s death and he hadn’t laid eyes on John since their little talk in the hospital.

He was still refusing to set foot in Baker Street and what was most puzzling was that John hadn’t come looking for him either.

But then John always did the unexpected which was why Sherlock was still so fascinated by him. Even when he wasn’t around, he was always on his mind.

Quite an impressive feat really.

“Sherlock!”

As if on cue, John materialized. Really, Sherlock should've known better. Hadn't he just thought how unpredictable John was? The thought alone should've clued him in, John was about to appear out of thin air.

He scoffed. “What do you want?”

The rudeness bounced off of John as if it had never happened.

“I need to talk to you.”

Sherlock didn't want to talk to John but the stubborn tilt of the man's head told him in no uncertain terms that John wasn't going to walk away until he had said what he had come there to say. Besides, the conversation, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, was long overdue.

“Come in then,” he said, fighting to keep resignation out of his voice.

He should be back to 100% by now but instead, he was still floundering about, trying to catch his bearings. There was something else nagging him at the back of his mind; some previously unknown shadow trying to come out, trying to break free and once the barriers were down, Sherlock was sure he wasn't going to like the outcome.

But what could it be?

He had already accepted that he might not be as perceptive as he'd like to be when it came to his own state of mind. But this darkness, this hole in the back of his head pointed towards something he was actually shying away from.

Very unlike him indeed.

Sherlock opened the door, striding into Lestrade's flat with sure steps.

“You like sleeping on the sofa,” John remarked and because it was totally pointless Sherlock refrained from commenting. He sat down and as predicted, John took the seat opposite from him so he could stare at Sherlock.

“So?” Sherlock prompted, balling his fingers into fists because it wouldn't do to be caught fidgeting by John. John might not be as smart as he was but he was far above the average of everyone else who crawled around. Despite his lapse, he did know Sherlock well enough to be able to decipher certain tells.

“You're going with your brother to meet your mother in a few hours...” John started and with a sinking feeling Sherlock got an inkling where this was going.

“Mycroft invited me to come along.”

Sherlock hummed. There was no point in saying anything else.

“I wanted to apologize,” John continued. “I tried to be like you. Following logic, looking at the evidence...”

This time Sherlock couldn't hold it in. “You followed evidence?” he shot back. “What evidence? As if I would be stupid enough to leave a note on my website that I've moved on to greener pastures...”

“You're right,” John slowly said, eyeing Sherlock carefully as if he was a wild animal about to bolt. Sherlock sat up straighter, focusing his intense gaze on his former friend.

“The note didn't convince me. But the text you sent me did...and then, well I talked to...well...that doesn't matter...anyway,” John's voice was faltering, switching sentences and changing gears. “I want things to go back to normal. I want you to come back home and I promise I will never doubt you again.”

Sherlock wasn't usually the one in tune with emotions or with other people's feelings which was why it puzzled him slightly why John didn't seem to understand that some things couldn't be unlearned, they couldn't be forgotten.

It still galled him to know John hadn't known him as well as he should've. Hell, Sherlock had actually expected John to trust him, despite any flimsy evidence. He had expected John to know him better, to be aware he would never be as stupid as everyone seemed to think he was.

“Why does everyone think I needed Moriarity to hold my hand?” Sherlock's voice was rising as he jumped to his feet, pacing. “And please, give me enough credit.” he whirled around, facing John again. “If I wanted to overdose, I wouldn't be so clumsy as to not achieve my goal!”

“Sherlock,” John had risen more slowly to his feet and when he stepped into Sherlock's space, the detective almost pushed him aside.

John put his hands on Sherlock's arms, stilling his movements. Sherlock could've shoved John away but he wasn't inclined to violence at the moment.

“I'm sorry,” John said gravely, his blue eyes conveying as much meaning as they could even if the message went over Sherlock's head. There had been a time when he wouldn't even have realized John was trying to convey something with his eyes; apparently he had changed. If for the better would have remain to be seen.

“I know you're sorry, John,” Sherlock said eventually, shrugging. “I can't...” his voice actually faltered but John didn't give him the time to continue anyway.

“All I am asking is for a chance to make it up to you. And I can't do it, if you're not giving me the time of day. Come back home. Let's go back to how things used to be and then slowly move forward...alright?”

Sherlock opened his mouth; wanting to say they would never be able to go back to how things had been but then he closed his mouth with an audible click. Despite everything, John was still the best, the only, partner he had ever had. He was a valuable asset and as understanding as Greg was, Sherlock doubted he would let him set up his experiments in the kitchen.

Contrary to what most people would've have expected of him , he hadn't invaded Greg's home apart from taking up residence on the sofa. Sure, his clothes were strewn about, his laptop was on the floor but he hadn't touched any other of his new friend's belongings. He wanted to keep Greg happy and not give him any reasons to kick him out.

Moving back to Baker Street would actually be in his own best interest.

“Sure,” Sherlock tilted his head. “I'll come back.”

“Great,” John exclaimed, “Why don't we pack up your stuff and tell Mycroft to have us picked up here...”

Sherlock sighed but with yet another nod, he went about grabbing his things and stuffing them into a bag.

##

Thankfully Sherlock was spared his brother's presence in the car ride to his home.

Some might call it a mansion but to Sherlock it had simply always been the place where he had grown up in. John's eyes grew wider as they drove through a huge gate, up a driveway until they finally stopped before a sprawling house.

“You grew up here?”

“It really is less impressive when you factor in the drafts, the impossible way to heat the place in the winter and the constant intrusion by having maintenance people running about,” Sherlock commented, getting out of the car.

John followed, looking less awestruck now but he was still bouncing about like a young dog who had found a bone. Sherlock's forehead creased; where had _that_ thought come from?

“Sherlock,” his mother appeared. He eyed her critically as she descended the stairs, coming to a stop before him. She had grey in her hair, more than the last time, and there were new wrinkles around her eyes. Still, her eyes were as keen as always, piercing blue and so very much like his own.

“Mycroft assured me you were on the mend,” she said, raising a hand to touch him but then aborting the gesture mid-move. “I would've come but you don't like being fawned over and if there was no need...” her voice trailed off.

“Of course,” Sherlock quickly assured her, “I'm fine, just a slight misunderstanding.”

She gave him a brilliant smile. “I told Mycroft you're too smart to try to kill yourself.”

She didn't comment on him supposedly running off with a master criminal and Sherlock refused to address how his own mother clearly didn't think him running off to entertain himself with crime was too farfetched to even be considered.

“I'll have your bags put into your room...”

“What?”

“I'm redecorating,” his mother said with a shrug, “I wasn't expecting your friend so I'm afraid you're going to have to share your room with him. You don't mind, Sherlock, right? You're already flatmates and your bed is big enough for four. Especially with you being so skinny.”

Sherlock's mouth hung open but then he inclined his head, “Of course, mother.”

“Oh and Mycroft wants to talk to you in the study. Don't be late. You know how grumpy he gets.”

Sherlock scoffed, walking briskly away, leaving John to deal with his mother. His steps faltered for a moment. What if his mother thought it funny to amuse John with anecdotes from when he had been little?

He brushed those thoughts away; why would John listen to such nonsense anyway? He raised his hand, knocking on the door before slowly pushing it open. At some stage Mycroft had taken over what used to be their father’s study and since then, he had made his all his own.

“Come in,” Mycroft answered but Sherlock had already entered, allowing the door to fall shut behind him.

The room was big, like all rooms in the mansion, held entirely in mahogany. The carpet was lush and the huge windows overlook a neatly manicured lawn. Sherlock immediately missed his own messy living room in Baker Street but he dutifully took a seat in front of the table, placing his hands carefully at his side.

“I am sorry.”

Sherlock blinked, tilting his head sideways. Had he heard right? Had his brother actually apologized to him ? And for what? For jumping to conclusions?

“Sherlock,” Mycroft continued and Sherlock had a mind to just get up and walk out the door but something stopped him.

The unnamed emotion had him rooted to the chair, unable to move.

“I want you to forgive John…”

Sherlock blinked. If Mycroft’s startling apology had been unexpected, this was even worse. His confusion must’ve shown because a small smirk played across his brother’s face before he reigned himself in again.

“John didn’t believe you had willingly run off with Moriarty.”

“Why are you lying?” Sherlock inquired because this was making less sense with each passing second.

“Can you just shut up for a moment and let me finish talking?”

Sherlock wasn’t one who usually took orders, from anyone, and especially not from his older brother but the uncharacteristic snappy tone had him shutting up rather quickly. Maybe he wanted to hear this after all; there was no harm in letting his brother speak, right?

“The note on your website had me quite convinced you had changed your mind about Moriarty but John was still defending you. The text then had him doubting but it was me who persuaded him that you were lost to us.”

“What did you do?” Sherlock inquired, his eyes holding his brother’s gaze. Was this what remorse looked like? The faint lines underneath his brother’s eyes seemed more pronounced and was his face a bit more ashen than it should be?

“Do you remember how mother was forced to drag you to a specialist?”

Sherlock blinked, nodding.

“When you were diagnosed as a sociopath, unable to feel but excellent at mimicking emotions she accepted the diagnosis and so did I.”

Sherlock saw no fault in this. There had been a time when even he had been inclined to agree with the evaluation even if later on it had become obvious he was still capable of feeling, of caring. Still, he was far from the norm so clearly he wasn’t quite _normal_ either.

Not that this had ever bothered him because why would he join the ranks of the other sheep?

And being considered as a sociopath had given him the freedom he had so craved; he was no longer required to be affectionate when he couldn’t stand being touched; he was no longer required to be cordial when all he wanted to do was scream and leave the room. But mostly, his mother stopping her attempts of trying to hug him or to shower him with affection had been the best outcome of all of this.

He frowned. There had been a time though when he had actually not minded being hugged…but then…the dark cloud reared up again and he quickly stopped thinking about the past. It was best not to go there.

Touching – bad – not welcome; end of story.

“I pride myself on being able to see more than most people but I have to admit when it comes to you, I allowed my emotions to get the better of me,” Mycroft continued, unaware of the little detour Sherlock had taken inside his head.

“I should’ve realized sooner you were misdiagnosed. John might have been the most obvious show of affection on your part but there were other instances before him…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock protested, “I’m not emotional.”

Mycroft ignored him. “I showed John your diagnosis. I explained to him how good you were in mimicking emotion but deep down, you didn’t actually feel any affection for him. Because you couldn’t.”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open. Mycroft had done what?

“The tipping point was me, as your brother, telling John that your friendship would’ve never been enough for you to stop embarking on a partnership with Moriarty. Up until then John had been clinging to the fact that you seemed to care about him. After our conversation, he was no longer convinced you had been abducted but that you had left out of your own free will.”

“He should’ve known better,” Sherlock bit out, unable to stop himself.

“Maybe,” Mycroft admitted, “but so should I. If you need to blame someone for this mess, blame me. Give John a chance to apologize. Don’t punish him for not being as smart as you…”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open for a moment before he audibly closed it. He swallowed hard. He needed to think about this.

The point remained that John hadn’t trusted him; he hadn’t put any stock in their bond but then again, as Mycroft had pointed out, John wasn’t him. The diagnosis had been quite convincing. Sherlock knew this because he had managed to read it. Even he had believed he was a sociopath for a while so could he really fault John for believing Sherlock’s brother? For believing in the words of a fellow doctor?

Maybe not.

Without another word, Sherlock got up, leaving Mycroft behind.

Maybe they could start anew? Sherlock was inexperienced when it came to friendship; he didn’t give his trust easily and to have it broken by the first person to worm his way into his heart…well, he wasn’t so sure if he could move past logic which told him not to risk such a thing ever again.

But maybe this wasn’t logic talking, maybe this was fear?

He needed to take a moment to think this through. He had already become aware of his failings when it came to his own mind, to his own feelings and yes, it galled him to admit he had those but if he denied a fundamental truth then he couldn’t claim any superiority anymore…and that would suck.

##

Sleeping in the same bed as John wasn’t as uncomfortable or as strange as Sherlock had expected. Given a choice of course he wouldn’t have bothered to go to bed at a so called _decent_ time but his mother had hinted on bringing out the family album and before he allowed such a travesty to take place, he’d rather go and fake sleep.

_Coward_ echoed through his mind but he dared his silent companion to show him a man, any man, who could easily contradict his mother and live to tell the tale.

Contrary to all of his expectations, sleep did eventually overcome him and he drifted off into the land of Nod with John silent beside him.

##

Darkness…

A voice…no, voices? Maybe?

Hard to tell…

A dripping sound, ripping through the air like an explosion, hurting his ear drums, making his fear grow stronger with each passing _blup…blup…_

What was happening?

Why was he here?

He struggled, trying to break the bonds of his mind but somehow his body was slow to respond. Had someone disconnected his brain from his body? Were his neurons not firing right?

He sniffed; stifling the sound as soon as it escaped his lips.

He was a big boy; he didn’t need Mummy to hold his hand but under the heavy blanket of the drugs in his system, he still yearned for the comforting touch of the one person he knew who loved him unconditionally and who would never put him through something like this.

The world shifted. Images raced passed him as if someone had hit the fast forward button on a DVD player and when he arrived at the end, white, searing pain soared through him.

He screamed.

##

“Sherlock!”

He was being shaken.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he became awake with flailing arms. Clearly sleep was overrated if this was the unpleasant outcome.

“Are you alright?” John’s voice barely filtered through his chaotic mind before he allowed his weak limbs to settle back into the pillows.

He gave John a look; of course he wasn’t bloody _alright_. How could he think otherwise?

“What was that?” John had now settled in beside him, resting on his right side, head propped up on an elbow, eyes boring holes into Sherlock’s face.

“I believe it is called a nightmare, John,” Sherlock said evenly which earned him an eye roll.

“Since when do you have nightmares?” he inquired and Sherlock ignored him, rolling to his own side, presenting his back to John, a clear indication that this conversation was over.

“Oh hell no,” John protested and before he knew what was happening, John’s hands were on him, forcing him to roll onto his back. John then crowded over him, staring down at him. “This is new,” John reasoned, eyes slightly narrowed. “You might not sleep much but I’ve seen you sleep. And if you were frequently woken up by nightmares, I would’ve heard you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Your bedroom isn’t anywhere close to mine and I usually stay in the living room anyway. How could you’ve possibly noticed…”

He wasn’t allowed to finish because John injected, “You knew about my nightmares and I wasn’t screaming the house down.”

“Well…”

“If you say, you deduced them then think again. You might be smart but even you have limits.”

Sherlock glared; he didn’t want to be reminded of his own failings, thank you very much.

“Look,” John’s face changed, becoming less insistent and more eager. “You don’t have to confide in me but if you want to, I’m here for you…”

Sherlock acknowledged the offer with a tense nod. Would now be a good time to talk about their messed up relationship?

“When we get back I’m going to tell Greg I’m moving back home…”

John looked quite pleased when Sherlock called Baker Street home and since it had sort of slipped off Sherlock’s tongue he let it slide.

“I’m sorry…”

“Oh don’t start this up again,” Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes for a second before he opened them again, saying. “I know you’re sorry, John,” he said quietly. “And I value your input, your partnership…you have been invaluable when it comes to my work…” Sherlock didn’t add any of the more _mushy_ stuff like how he had come to consider John as a friend and how the betrayal had hurt him.

Logically he was now finally able to accept, with the help of his brother’s explanations, that John had simply followed his own logic as best as he could and could he really fault John for it? John might be smarter than most but he was still way out of Sherlock’s league…and Sherlock hadn’t done anything to dissuade the image of being a sociopath?

Of course, John should’ve known better because he had spent considerably more time with Sherlock than anyone else but could he really lay all the blame solely on John’s shoulders?

He wanted to; but he knew better.

Thankfully any further awkward conversation was cut short by Sherlock’s phone beeping. He quickly dislodged John who shouted in protest while Sherlock reached for his phone reading Greg’s text.

“We’ve got a new case,” he said, swinging his long legs out of the bed, racing towards his discarded clothes.

“Sherlock.” John tried to get his attention but the detective wasn’t listening.

When he was dressed, clothes haphazardly stuffed into his small bag, he turned around. “Why aren’t you dressed yet?” he asked, earning yet another eye roll.

“How do you think you’ll get back to London at this hour?”

“Mycroft of course,” Sherlock said easily. “I can borrow his car. He won’t mind.”

“The driver might,” John mumbled but Sherlock waved the objection away.

John still grumbled while he got dressed but he stopped objecting, leaving Sherlock to get the car organized.

His mother surely would understand that he had to leave in a rush. His work was important after all…

##

A few days later Sherlock was sitting in a sulk on the sofa back in Baker Street. Why didn’t time go faster? He glanced at the clock again and unfortunately the numbers still hadn’t changed significantly.

Why this case was so important to him, he couldn’t say. It just was. And how odd was that? In their own way, every single case was important because it was _his work_ but there was something about these mutilated and abused children which was tugging at his mind.

Not his heart; he might not be a sociopath but he was still very much Sherlock Holmes. Something important though was eluding him and he couldn’t easily write this off as acceptable.

It was a shame really how long it had taken them to figure out that they had a serial abductor / rapist on their hands. Fine, the cases were few, with quite a lot of years in between them but the MO was always the same.

A young boy or girl would get abducted. The victim would be around the age of 12 or 13 with light eyes and dark hair. He usually left classifying people into _pretty_ or _not so pretty_ to other people but he had to admit the children had all been aesthetically pleasing. Even he could tell; on an observatory level of course, not because he wanted to coddle the child or even dish out a hug.

Anyway, all of the children had seemingly vanished without a trace only to be found about a week later with cuts and bruises and obvious signs of sexual assault. The first body had been found in 1996 in a small, sleepy town not too far away from London. Sherlock didn’t recall hearing anything in the media but then again, it wasn’t as if he had been keeping track of crimes back then.

His experiments had been much more important.

Then, the next victim had been a young girl, 12 years ago. This time the crime had happened in Wales which was probably why the two crimes hadn’t been linked. After all, it was a sad fact that humans often tended to be horrible people at heart.

The third incident happened 8 years ago followed by 5 years ago and then the latest victim, Tim Massari. The boy was from the outskirts of London which was probably why Greg had finally connected the dots. Sherlock might like to give his friend grief but he wasn’t totally incompetent in his job.

The bruising and torture was consistent in all cases. As if the perpetrator kept following the same path with the gruesome ending in sight.

But if this was a sexual assault why did it happen so infrequently? Sexual predators rarely took time off…and the time frames were inconsistent with, for example, imprisonment because if the man would run afoul of the authorities this often, surely someone would’ve noticed by now?

Then again, incompetence was running rampant so who knew?

Sherlock had finally been able to narrow everything down, giving Greg a good lead as to where the latest victim might’ve been tortured and killed. If one knew how and where to look, the clues had been right there!

Anyway, the raid was scheduled to go ahead later tonight and Sherlock was perfectly itching to get going. This was unusual. Usually when a case was solved, he didn’t necessary need to be involved in the actual apprehension of the criminal but in this case? Here he _needed_ to be there…

“Here, have some tea.”

Sherlock eyed the tea as if it was about to bite him. He wasn’t in the mood for tea; he was busy, didn’t John see that?

He scoffed, turning his face away, his eyes returning to the report in his hands.

Usually the puzzle was what drew him.

Like most people suspected, he wasn’t into solving crime out of the goodness of his heart. Hell, if everyone had to agree on one point, it would be about him not actually having a heart.

His mind raced, helpfully supplying that this was nonsense. Of course he had a heart; it was beating right now, wasn’t it?

He mentally rolled his eyes at himself. Sometimes it was bloody tiring to be caught up in his own mind. Which was exactly why he needed so much mental stimuli to keep the voices out.

Now this didn’t make him sound like the self proclaimed sociopath he was but more like a certifiable lunatic but still, so what if sometimes he bounced ideas off inside his head, multiple voices raising pros and cons so he could eventually arrive at the solution.

Puzzles, mysteries…these were his life blood; his sustenance and if his freaking body wouldn’t be so distracting with occasionally actually demanding physical food, then he would just keep on going without it.

Still, right now, John should know better than to bother him with freaking tea.

The tea cup suddenly materialized in front of his nose and he reeled back, startled and nearly making a knee jerk reaction which almost caused the cup to wobble and spill onto his report.

“John!” he chided, “What are you doing?”

“You need tea, so have it!” John demanded, his eyes steely.

Contrary to what most people thought, John wasn’t mellow or a fellow who could be easily managed. He might look unassuming and innocent but he had an iron core and an even stronger will and at times, not even Sherlock could get him to do something he didn’t want to do.

Maybe he should give in and just take the tea. He was maybe a bit thirsty and John’s tea was the best he had ever had.

His eyes darted back to the report but no new lines had magically appeared while he hadn’t been looking.

Lestrade had everything he needed to make the arrest, Sherlock had seen to that. He just wanted to cross all the _t_ s and dot all the _i_ s because nothing ever had been this important.

As to why, well, this was still a somewhat puzzling thing and he was slowly unfurling the answer in his mind but he was working on it and while normally he never relied on anything as silly as gut feeling or instinct, this time he knew without a shred of doubt that this arrest was very important to him.

This was personal, even if he hadn’t quite figured out why.

“Fine,” Sherlock conceded, putting the report away. He took the cup from John and for a moment he was surprised by the quick look of relief that washed over John’s face.

His mind though was engaged, running through all the information he had gathered, making new connections and comparing them to previously reached decisions, making sure everything was correct and how it should be. He didn’t like to admit it but occasionally even he missed things. Not because he was actually _wrong_ but because he hadn’t quite processed all the data yet – of course.

The warm liquid exploded onto his tongue, wetting his mouth and then warming him from the inside. It made no sense and try as he might, he hadn’t yet been able figure out why John’s teas always resulted in him having these strange warm, glowy feelings on the inside. Tea couldn’t possibly be responsible for such an emotion so if the tea wasn’t to blame then why was he reacting in such a way?

Interpreting emotions wasn’t his skill; logic and truth, these were the things he operated in but ever since meeting John, he had to admit he couldn’t quite always discount emotion from his theories because unlike him, everyone seemed to be driven by them which resulted in not so logical actions.

Still, he was at a loss as to why John had this affect on him and as soon as this case was done, he would devote some much needed time to get some answers. Had he maybe forgiven John for following his own logic before? Was this what it was? Was this what forgiving someone felt like? If so, he needed to catalogue the emotion and make a note of it so he would be able to recognize it in the future. It could come in handy some day, right?

The tea was halfway finished when he noticed something was wrong. He frowned, blinking owlishly over the rim of the cup. Why was the world slowly dimming? He squeezed his eyes shut before quickly opening them again, nearly dropping the tea cup when his fingers suddenly gave out.

“What…?” he slurred, barely noticing how John pried the cup out of his fingers, depositing on the small table before him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John’s voice was so close, so close he could actually feel his friend’s breath ghosting over his exposed skin.

_Friend_ …yes, John was his friend!

He had never had a friend before; he had never even needed a friend because people could not be trusted and would eventually let him down anyway not to mention people usually took one look at him, called him a freak and started avoiding him at all costs if not even laughing at him behind his back.

Greg might not laugh at him and while the Detective Inspector never tolerated Donovan’s insults, Sherlock knew how to interpret the occasional glances when he said something startling or maybe out of line. No, Greg might respect his work but John was the only one who actually valued what he did, what he could do.

Greg had only recently gotten filed away under _friend_ but this didn’t magically make the Detective Inspector tolerate all of Sherlock’s so called faults. Or hang ups. Only John seemed to be able to put up with everything…

“You’ve been working too hard. You need to rest…and since you refused to listen to me, I gave you something to sleep.”

“You drugged me?” the words were barely falling from his lips as the room dimmed around him. He was gently being manoeuvred sideways until he was flat on his back. He could barely make out John as he was lifting Sherlock’s legs and carefully depositing them on the sofa, pulling a nearby blanket up over him.

“Yes,” John admitted, not a trace of guilt in his voice, his blue eyes shining with conviction of having done the right thing. “You need rest. You can’t keep going like this…and you weren’t listening to reason…this is for your own good!”

“Not now, John,” Sherlock mumbled, tongue already going numb as everything else went slack. He was slowly sinking into the ground, being swallowed whole and he didn’t much like the feeling.

He had stayed off the drugs because in the end, despite the high and distraction it had provided, it hadn’t been a long term solution. Solving crime, engaging his brain was a much more fruitful way to keep occupied and now that he had John, even those dull moments when he didn’t have any work were almost manageable.

“I need to be there…he can’t get away…John…” Sherlock was almost pleading but he couldn’t be sure the words were actually still forming on his tongue. Maybe he was just speaking them in his mind?

Something flared deep inside; a ball of steady blue which he had always turned to for comfort, for reassurance but instead of enveloping him with warmth, it burst into fiery red, breaking apart from the inside out. He flinched, trying to get away from the sharp edges as the ball vanished into nothing.

_Trust_ …he hadn’t even realized he had been counting on John to always his back, to be there right beside him when he needed him. John had inserted himself into his life, slowly reaching into corners he hadn’t even known, awaking parts of him which had been close to atrophy. When had this trust grown back? Maybe it had never been completely gone? What was happening? Didn’t he know his own mind anymore? ARGH!

His mother had loved him; Sherlock might not understand the emotion but her devotion and continued acceptance of who he was and of his _shortcomings_ had taught him this much. Of course, he didn’t consider his so called failings actually _failing_ because who needed to clog up his brain with useless information or emotions? But Mummy had been a constant presence in his life even if he hardly ever saw her any more.

His father had been mostly absent anyway and Mycroft…well, they were a lot more civil now than they had been and why his older brother kept inserting himself into Sherlock’s life, going so far as to have him watched, he didn’t understand…but well, it was yet another constant.

But trust? He had never trusted anyone to be there…until John.

And now, with one well meant but careless action, John had ruined this trust. Again! For how was Sherlock supposed to trust his new found friend if John didn’t see? If John couldn’t understand how important this case was to him?

Hadn’t he told him?

Hadn’t he given enough evidence by spending night over night pouring over the details, making sure everything was how it should be?

He had even been dammed civil to Anderson…that alone should have had warning bells go off in John’s head.

Something new and uniquely precious broke inside him and wasn’t it a dammed shame he only realized it had been there when it had been lost? That despite their recent quarrel, Sherlock had actually never stopped trusting John?

And now? Well, now this precious trust had finally received quite a dent.

Only time could tell if this break could be reversed and maybe Sherlock needed to take some time to figure himself out before lashing out.

As his thoughts grew more murky, less coherent by the minute, John’s haunted but strangely firm eyes were the last thing he saw.

Who knew that acting out of love could be this unpleasant?

Wait… _love_?

##

Pushed face forward into a mattress…

Naked skin itchy with horror…

Another body pressed over him, covering him but unlike the pleasant hugs he had received before from his mother, this wasn’t pleasant at all.

Legs spread…wide…uncomfortably so…

Fingers, hands…all over, roaming freely across his body, touching him in places no one should.

Shaking…fine tremors racking through his body, slowly given way to full on sobs and scream and something tore through him, ripping him apart.

He convulsed as darkness slowly started to descent.

The hurting thing was removed from his body…only to be shoved back in…grunts, moans echoed through the room…then…nothing.

##

Struggles…body barely moving…window?

Disjointed thoughts ran through Sherlock’s mind as everything fragmented even more. He wasn’t able to deal with the emotions coursing through him, he didn’t know how to catalogue the intrusion he had just experienced.

As if someone was slowly cutting the film, images flickered before his eyes, slowly ripping apart as he struggled to get off the mattress.

Where was he?

A sound from outside the door had him recoiling, almost falling into a trance like state because if he wasn’t inside his body when _he_ came back, then he wouldn’t have feel, right?

A soft breeze…birds?

He stumbled, falling, then crawling towards a latched up window. He clawed, fingers bloody but in the end, the wooden planks came loose and he more or less fell out the window, landing on dirt.

Stunned, he just stayed there for a minute before he forced his aching muscles to move.

Move.

Move…

The word echoed in this mind as he slowly gained speed, running through the woods, finding his way home.

He didn’t know where he was but at the same time everything was familiar and when he finally reached his room, he sat for what felt like hours in the bath, soaking and cleaning himself, washing away any trace of shame.

Then he crawled into bed, closing his eyes, his mind was made up.

He didn’t want to feel; he couldn’t allow his emotions to take over like this. How could he continue to conduct his experiments, to observe and learn if his mind was clouded with nothing but pain and disgust and…

His mind trailed off and he mentally created a brick wall, shoving all his unwanted feelings behind it, locking it away hopefully forever.

And right next to his need to be left alone was the underlying fear of his mother being disappointed in him.

He might be only 14 but he was far from stupid. Hadn’t his mother only a week ago chewed out Mycroft for having condoms? And his brother was years older and probably already sexually active…

What would she do if she were to find out that Sherlock, the youngest, had had sex? He couldn’t recall consenting but surely he must have? At some point? Right?

He chewed on his lower lip while he carefully dragged in his breaths…he must have wanted this, right?

This whole thing didn’t compute!

When he woke up, Sherlock was aware of his hurting body but he couldn’t recall what had happened? Maybe not even wanting to investigate should’ve raised alarm bells inside his head but the young boy simply refused to deal with what had happened, shying away from any touch.

And when his diagnosis came in, well, being a sociopath and unable to feel would surely explain why he didn’t want anyone to touch him and why he was practically allergic to anyone doubting him.

For if he couldn’t feel, then the gaping hole deep inside him where all the unwanted emotions were stored, couldn’t exist…he was safe, right?

##

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock stirred, slowly returning to the world of waking.

“Hm?” he asked, his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked, adjusting to the bright room around him. “What…?” he mumbled, his mind not the quickest in catching up with recent events.

John’s face hovered before him; a kind yet determined expression on his face and as if John was the trigger, the rest rushed back, nearly drowning him in memories and emotions. He gasped, sitting up so quickly all the blood rushed out of his head and he almost toppled sideways once more.

“You aren’t back on the drugs again, are you?” Greg asked, crouching down before him, putting his hands on Sherlock’s thighs.

Drugs?

Sherlock’s expression closed down as he recalled John handing him the tampered with tea. He might be willing to admit he might’ve overdone it a bit in his pursuit of this case but really…drugs?

“Did you catch him?” Sherlock asked, taking deep, measured breaths to help sort himself out. He would never admit to any kind of weakness and falling for this wasn’t going to win him any points with Greg.

“There was…a hiccup…” Greg said carefully, eyes averted before he got up, pacing back and forth.

“A hiccup?” Sherlock asked, getting up himself, putting a steadying hand on the back of the sofa when his legs weren’t quite cooperating yet.

“Yes,” Greg said with a huge sigh, stopping to turn and face Sherlock. “Someone must’ve warned him. When we raided the house, everything pointed to him having been there but we still couldn’t find him.”

“Damm it,” Sherlock swore and his uncharacteristic outburst had Greg raising an eyebrow at him.

“It wasn’t a total bust though,” The Detective Inspector hurriedly added, “We found a young boy chained to the bed…”

Sherlock stilled. “Did he…?”

“No,” Greg answered quickly. “We haven’t even received a missing person’s report yet so the boy couldn’t have been gone for long. We’ve taken him to the station for now while we’re locating his mother.”

“He wasn’t harmed then yet?”

“No, just scared…”

“I need to see the house…” Sherlock changed gears, he reached to grab his coat but stumbled over his still weak feet.

“What happened to you?” Greg’s arms came around him, steadying him before he face planted onto the floor.

“John,” Sherlock gritted out, “thought I was overdoing it and drugged my tea…”

“He what?” Greg nearly dropped Sherlock in astonishment.

“Yes,” Sherlock was getting steadier and steadier by the minute. “He wanted me to rest…he didn’t expect you to muck it up…”

Why was he defending John? He hadn’t after all drugged him in the height of the chase. No, he had waited until the case was more or less solved which, Sherlock figured, worked in John’s favour. He still couldn’t tell how he would react when he saw him again.

It was probably a good thing he had gone to work this morning…giving Sherlock some time to process things.

“Do you want me to have a word with him?”

“I can fight my own battles…”

“Still, if you want me to…”

Sherlock gave Greg a look before he slowly walked down the staircase after him. Normally he wouldn’t be caught dead in a police car but he wasn’t in the mood to hail a cab. Greg was here, so was transportation and he was in a little bit of a hurry.

“What do you expect to find?” Greg asked as they were on the way.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted, “But I need to see this place...”

“You can tell me to shut up,” Greg continued, “but this isn’t just like any other case for you, is it?”

“What gave it away?” Sherlock asked with dry humour. He didn’t think he would’ve been this transparent. And until about half an hour ago, he hadn’t even been aware himself why this case was so important to him. Honestly, he still wasn’t quite able to readjust his world view to what he had remembered. A huge part of him was busy trying to shove those unwanted memories back into the darkest corner he could find but now that he was aware of his past, he wasn’t the kind of man who could simply forget about it.

He wasn’t motivated out of some need for justice. He didn’t want to stop this monster, or monsters as Greg had alluded to, because he wanted to stop the same thing from happening to another child. He couldn’t care less about those fictitious people or the previous victims.

But this man had managed to make him forget a part of who he was. He had messed with his mind and Sherlock had let him! He might only have been a boy back then but the fact remained that for a huge part of his life, a part of him had been missing and while he wasn’t keen on getting those memories back, he couldn’t let such tampering slide.

He was going to find this man, or men, and get his revenge. If this stopped other children from being harmed too, well, that would be a nice by product, right?

##

Sherlock navigated the grounds with ease, fully aware of Greg’s puzzlement. He shouldn’t be this familiar with the area but he was.

It helped of course that Leroy Archer’s house was located close to his family’s residence. Sherlock was familiar with this area of the world, having spent countless hours roaming through the hills and the forest.

“You’re familiarity with this has got nothing to do with the fact you grew up around here, right?”

Sherlock ignored Greg and for once, Greg didn’t push.

When he saw the window he had fallen out of all those years ago, he stopped. There really was no need for him to enter the house, right? The police might be unable to have a single intelligent thought but despite what he usually said, they weren’t totally inept at processing evidence.

“Was Anderson here?”

“No…”

Sherlock waved him off. He didn’t need to know who else had been here. If Anderson hadn’t been here then nothing should’ve ended up too much fucked up.

“I’ve seen enough,” Sherlock announced, turning around and walking back to the car.

“You’ll need to figure out who on the way through town tipped off Archer…”

“What…?”

“Someone must’ve seen the police cars heading through town and called ahead. How else could he have known to get out? And judging from how you found the place, he didn’t even have enough time to get rid of any evidence. He just ran…so considering it only took us about five minutes from town to get here, this was all the time he had…”

“It will take some time…”

“I know,” Sherlock sighed, rubbing his face.

He got back into the car, pointedly staring out the window. Maybe Greg had gotten more perceptive because he didn’t bother him with any more questions on the ride back.

Back in town, Sherlock followed his friend into the station but when he saw Anderson and Donovan up ahead, he turned around, sitting down. Why was he avoiding them? Normally he would love to walk up them and point out all their shortcomings. But not today.

Greg gave him an odd look but let him be. Did he have to worry about Greg becoming more perceptive? He kind of prided himself in not being an open book but apparently ever since he had gotten abducted and nearly died, he must’ve lost some of his brain cells.

He leaned back, noticing for the first time the young boy sitting not too far away from him. His shoulders were slumped; his body was hunched, as if he was trying vanish into thin air. There were lacerations on his wrists…

Sherlock usually avoided children. Grown ups were usually hard to talk to because they couldn’t be precise or answer a direct question but children were even worse. Still, how likely was it going to be that he would be able to talk to the boy at a later stage? Mothers usually tended to be quite protective of their children and while the mother hen instinct in this particular female might be lacking, he couldn’t quite count on a second chance to present itself.

Why hadn’t this boy been missed/

“Hello,” Sherlock cleared his throat and when the boy gave him an alarmed look because he was towering over him, he quickly got down on his knees so he was on the same level. This would help put him at ease, right?

“I’m Sherlock,” he introduced himself. How should he go about this? He couldn’t just come out and ask the boy; Sherlock might not be familiar with trauma, apart from getting brightly coloured blankets shoved at him, but even he knew he had to thread carefully here.

Maybe if he offered up something of a personal nature? Showing the boy, whose name he still didn’t know, that he wasn’t alone and could therefore trust Sherlock and talk to him?

“When I was fourteen,” Sherlock started, “I went missing for a while. I don’t think my parents noticed…” Sherlock frowned.

His memory was still quite fuzzy about that time but while he couldn’t recall any details of what had been done to him, he was certain he had been gone for a few days. Why had no one come looking for him?

“I don’t…”

“I’m not going to ask you about what the man did to you,” Sherlock quickly continued because he didn’t need an eyewitness statement in this case. He could dig through his own memories, thank you very much and besides, if Greg found out he had bothered the boy, there might be hell to pay.

That would not be good…right? And John would be upset too.

“Can you tell me how you were abducted?” he asked instead.

“Mum’s always working late,” the boy started. “There wasn’t any ice cream in the freezer…”

“So you went out to get some,” Sherlock concluded and got a nod in reply.

“The gas station isn’t far,” the child continued, “I…” here his voice faltered. “A car pulled up. And then…”

“No one saw anything?”

“I don’t think…I was alone…I don’t mind being alone. People talk too much. I’d rather read a book…”

“Thank you.”

“Mathew,” the boy added, “I’m Mathew.”

“Take care, Mathew,” Sherlock said, giving him a small smile and before he said anything else, Donovan descended like some kind of avenging angel.

“Is the freak bothering you?” she asked, inserting herself into a private conversation.

When Mathew just gave her a confused stare, Donovan had the gall to actually grab Sherlock’s shirt, attempting to drag him to his feet. The only reason why he didn’t get violent was because the boy was there.

Sherlock rose to his feet, grabbed the woman’s wrist and then removed the offending fingers from his person.

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed.

“Oh,” She mocked, eyes going comically wide. “Does the freak have issues with being touched?” And to prove a point, she reached out, attempting to pat him on his cheek.

Sherlock reeled back as if he had been shot, stumbling into a warm body behind him.

“Sally,” Greg said, his voice steely, “Leave it be.”

Before anyone could say anything else, Sherlock turned around and escaped down the hallway. He only allowed himself to take a deep breath when he was outside and predictably this was when his brother’s car pulled up.

He ignored it and started walking down the sidewalk with long strides.

“I can make you talk to you me,” Mycroft said through an open window. “It’s in your own best interest if you come with me now…”

Sherlock paused, his fingers balled into tight fists.

When he was seated next to his brother, he purposefully looked away.

“Why did you never say anything?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Don’t play stupid with me,” Mycroft shot back. “I find myself yet again in need to apologize to you and I don’t like this new trend one bit.”

“Then don’t bother.”

“It’s not that simple…”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock answered, risking a quick glance towards his brother. “If you don’t want to talk to me, we both would be happier for it. And then you wouldn't feel the need to apologize either!”

“A very interesting case crossed my desk recently,” Mycroft changed topic. His tone was casual…too casual.

Sherlock tensed, alarm was slowly creeping in. Mycroft might be many things but stupid wasn’t one of them. He was almost as good in connecting dots as Sherlock was and he had more access to information than Sherlock could even dream about. This gave his brother an unfair advantage but who was he to cry over things which couldn’t be changed?

In a way, having less access only proved that Sherlock was the smarter one between them because he had managed to do so much with less.

“You never ran away, did you?”

“Huh?” Sherlock blinked, actually turning around to face his brother because what was he talking about now? “When did I run away?”

“At fourteen,” Mycroft said gravely. “You were gone for a few days and everyone thought you had taken off until one morning when you calmly walked down for breakfast…”

“Oh…”

“Mummy was quite upset. I believe you got room arrest for a few weeks?”

Sherlock nodded; now he remembered. Room arrest back then hadn’t really been a punishment because all his research had been with him and all his meals had been brought up to him. In a way, the supposed punishment had actually been a reward of some kind and it had given him time to heal.

_Oh…_

“You were the first…” Mycroft continued. “You were the first boy taken and you never said anything.”

His brother reached out, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder in a hard grip. “Why didn’t you say anything? It’s not like you to let things slide…”

“I didn’t remember…”

“What?”

“I only remembered this morning, alright?” Sherlock was nearly shouting now, trying to dislodge Mycroft’s grip on his shoulder. “I remembered running back home, showering, crawling into bed and then the next morning…well…I didn’t remember!”

“This was when you stopped wanting people to touch you,” Mycroft continued. “You retreated…when I’m through with the specialist Mummy took you to, he’ll be lucky if he finds bread crumbs.”

“What…?”

It wasn’t like Sherlock to be this confused but honestly, could Mycroft make any less sense?

“He not only misdiagnosed you,” Mycroft gritted through clenched teeth, “He also totally missed the trauma you were suffering from. You repressed what happened but you couldn’t really forget so you pushed everyone away, pulling yourself into a protective cocoon of sorts where nothing and no one could ever hurt you again.”

“Well…” Sherlock protested. This made him sound weak! He wasn’t weak! “I don’t need any help,” he hissed.

“Oh yes, you do!” Mycroft of course protested. “You repressed what happened to you and while I’m no expert, even I know that once the memories have started to come back, you won’t be able to shut them off again! And I know you. You always need to get to the bottom of things. You won’t be able to resist poking at the holes either until you know everything.”

Sherlock didn’t want to know everything. Frankly, what he did know already wasn’t pleasant and he had no desire to actually remember more than the pain and the way it had felt when… shoved into his body…well…he coughed, angling away from his brother.

He really didn’t want to go there.

But Mycroft was right. He might not want to but he would push and prod until all the holes were filled. It was in his nature. And then, maybe after everything had been restored, he would be able to delete the unnecessary information but before he could do that, he would have to determine what he needed and what he didn’t. And that unfortunately included remembering first.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft quietly said and when Sherlock chanced to look at his brother through lowered lashes he saw the concern and remorse clearly etched into his brother’s face. “I should’ve noticed something was wrong.”

“No one did,” Sherlock calmly said. “There’s no point in you trying to blame yourself for everything…”

“I should’ve noticed,” Mycroft insisted causing Sherlock to shrug. If Mycroft wanted to shoulder the blame, then he was free to do so.

“Instead of apologizing,” Sherlock latched onto the thought, “you could get the phone records of everyone in the village. Someone warned Archer and I want to know who.”

“Consider it done.”

Well, maybe guilt was worth something after all.

##

Sherlock was in no mood to entertain any more _sorries_ when he walked up towards the living room in Baker Street. His quota was filled.

But when he entered the living room, both Greg and John were there, sitting on the sofa with solemn looks on his face.

Oh hell no!

He turned around in one fluid motion and he was already half way out the door when John yanked him back into the room, kicking the door closed with the back of his foot.

“Hey!” Sherlock protested. He wasn’t some kind of kitten which could be hauled around by the scruff of its neck.

“Why do I always try to do the right thing but end up hurting you instead?”

Sherlock shook John off, walking towards his violin, picking it up. Maybe if he played as horribly as he could they would leave.

John’s hands gently touched his, making him pause.

“I only drugged you because I wanted to help you. You didn’t see yourself. You were working yourself to death. You needed a break and I thought the case was done. I didn’t know…”

“In John’s defence,” Greg injected, “He didn’t know Archer had an accomplice who would warn him and before you say anything,” he added when Sherlock opened his mouth. “You being there wouldn’t have made a difference. You are good Sherlock but you aren’t omnipotent. Tell me, in all honestly. If you had been there, would you have been able to deduce that Archer would get warned?”

“No,” Sherlock answered through clenched teeth, his stomach tightening into knots. “But if I had been there, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten away…”

“No,” Greg corrected him again. “He was long gone. He must’ve had an exit strategy planned. You didn’t find any clues now either…so face it, your presence wouldn’t have made a difference.”

_But I might not have remembered if I hadn’t been drugged through the wind!_

Sherlock’s didn’t say the words out loud though because deep down he realized he couldn’t keep the unwanted memories buried forever. He might like to but eventually, everything would come back. In one form or another and as much as it galled him to admit, Mycroft was right too. Repressing the memories had shaped him into the person he now was.

His dislike of being touched could be explained with being…he couldn’t even say the word in his mind but it didn’t make it any less true. And retreating, putting a wall up between his emotions and the world, embracing being a sociopath even if he knew it wasn’t true…all those things had been brought about because he couldn’t deal with what had happened to him.

In the long run, he needed to know who he was in order to be at his best.

This was why he needed the men to be found. They had messed wit his mind and no one, _no one_ messed with the mind of Sherlock Holmes and got away with it.

“Sherlock, we know…” Strangely it was Greg who implored and not John and for a moment Sherlock was distracted by this before some sort of reason reasserted itself.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” He huffed, forcing his hands into his pockets because wringing them, like he felt tempted to do, would sort of negate his statement.

He slumped onto the sofa, ignoring Greg who was sitting beside him.

John, of course, didn’t know how to let sleeping lions lie because he walked up to him, crouching down before him, putting his hands onto Sherlock’s thighs.

A tension of a different sort raced through him which had him momentarily blinking. He wasn’t a slave to his emotions or hormones like so many other but maybe with John, it might be interesting to give in for once.

He shook his head, trying to chase those thoughts away. What was he thinking? He was still mad at John, right?

Then again, for someone who prided himself on logic and not feeling, he was observing a rather alarming trend to be all emotional when it involves John. Ranging from mad, to angry to a fluttering in his stomach which was just down right odd…yes, leave it to John to turn his life upside down.

“Did Mycroft…?” Sherlock stopped himself, what was he doing?

“Mycroft knows?” John said with a hint of pleasure. “Good, good but no…”

“I am a detective too, you know,” Greg added. “Occasionally I do detect and you’ve been odd for a while on this case. At first, I simply wrote it off as you being you and eventually, I can add two and two together. And digging into your past, well, once I was looking for it, it wasn’t hard to put together. You were the first victim, the first boy they took and you never reported it…why?”

Sherlock huffed. Bad enough Mycroft knew about this but now his friends knew too?

This thought startled him again because thinking about them as his friends was still somewhat new and exciting in many strange ways.

He stalled, raising a hand to rub the bridge of his nose before brushing some hair out of his face.

“I…” his voice faltered. Deny? Admit? For once he was unsure how to proceed. Logic was what his life was based on there as he was rapidly learning, there were some things which simply couldn’t be based on logic, regardless how much he might want to.

“I didn’t remember until you drugged me,” Sherlock eventually answered, taking some small satisfaction in how John flinched at the word _drugged_. “Even now, bits and pieces are still eluding me, slowly coming back to me.”

“So you didn’t know at first why this case was so important to you?” Greg asked and Sherlock could hear the unspoken question loud and clear: you weren’t withholding information on purpose?

“No,” Sherlock answered. “I am usually not in the habit to run from facts, “he huffed in what was probably more a show of annoyance than real emotion. “Still, I am finding it…” he paused for a moment, distracted by John gently squeezing his thighs again. “Distracting,” he continued. “to discovered that I deleted rather important information about myself.”

“It shaped you,” John continued for him, eyes full of emotion which for once, Sherlock declined to read because if he were to read pity there, he didn’t know what he would do. “It is natural for…” John’s voice faltered, unable to pronounce the words so with Sherlock’s usual callousness, he completed it for him.

“Just say rape victim, John,” Sherlock said. “Since this is what I am.”

More thigh squeezing…

“It is only natural for someone in such a position to not want to deal with it and we all know how apt you are at ignoring things you don’t want to see. What I find most discerning is that no one in your family cared enough to figure it out.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They did care,” he was actually defending his mother and Mycroft which left a bitter taste in his mouth, anger flaring in the pit of his stomach because the crux of things was, John was right. He had been nothing but a child, a hurting child and while his mother had dragged him off to see a shrink, she had accepted the diagnosis without wondering about it once. And Mycroft? Someone supposedly with equal intellect to him, hadn’t even blink an eye lash but then again, Mycroft was only a few years older than him…maybe he should cut him some slack? But then what about his mother?

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip, a gesture he would normally be caught dead doing and yet, he couldn’t help himself.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he pushed John away who fell onto his ass. How funny!

Sherlock gave him a droll look before he got up. “Do you have any new information for me? Any new data?”

“Sherlock…” both Greg and John implored but he ignored them.

“Anything?” Sherlock prompted again and when the two men shook their heads, he huffed, this time in real annoyance. “Well, I’ll just go over what I’ve already got. Tea, John?”

As always, Sherlock wasn’t offering John tea but asking him to make one for him or them and for once, John only gave him a weird look before nodding. Then there was an exchange between Greg and John with Greg nodding and Sherlock frowned.

When had he lost the ability to read his friends? Probably right along the same time when John had messed with his equilibrium the first place, right when he had believed the lies Moriarty had put in place.

Grrrr…was he still bitter about that? He had thought he had moved on but clearly, he hadn’t. He was learning many new things about himself and he didn’t like them.

How could he possibly continue with his job, his life’s work if he couldn’t even deduce anything about himself correctly? How could he put ant stock in anything else he saw if he could be this wrong about himself?

It didn’t bear thinking about…and since he was in a mood to avoid, he pushed those thoughts away, accepting the mug of tea from John with a smile before plunging head first into the data he currently had on the serial abductors and rapists.

Maybe if he allowed his mind to roam the information, searching his own hidden past for clues, he might be able to gain a unique inside into the matter which hopefully would give them an advantage…

It was worth a try…

##

“I’m going for a walk,” Sherlock announced to an empty room. He blinked, looking left and right. How had he missed John walking out?

He quickly glanced towards the coat rack, finding John’s coat still there. Then he could hear the shower running which solved the mystery rather quickly.

He got up, putting on his own coat before pounding down the stairs and out into the cool night.

He was missing something; a key piece of information was right there, teasing him and yet, every time he tried to grab it, to latch onto it, it stumble out of his grasp.

It was maddening and driving him to drink – if drink were one of his vices but it honestly wasn’t.

 

He lost all track of time while he was walking, lost in his thoughts until he came to a full stop. This was it, the missing puzzle.

If he had been the first victim, then he must have been selected for a reason. The MO of them was to abduct boys and girls with similar physical features to his own: dark hair, pale skin and blue eyes.

So picking him hadn’t been just a random occurrence. He hadn’t been snatched off the street…which meant he must’ve known the man…

He blinked, the remaining puzzles slotting into place.

They had been chasing the wrong man. Well, not the wrong man but not the master mind behind everything.

He whirled around, taking in where he was before plotting the quickest way to get back home.

Wait…he had phone…he fiddled with his pockets, too caught up in the process to notice the car pulling up beside him.

When the window was pulled down, he tensed, turning sideways, staring into the muzzle of a gun.

“I would suggest you get in without creating a fuzz. Otherwise I might be tempted to start randomly shooting people.”

“You don’t shoot people,” Sherlock stalled for time, taking a step backwards. This was new.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the features of the man still shrouded in darkness. Something was yet again nibbling at the back of his mind. He knew this man, not just from his forgotten past but from very recently…where had he seem him?

More pieces slotted into place and for once, he was too caught up to pay attention to his surroundings. Excusable really, considering how many new emotions had washed over him recently and he wasn’t the best one to cope with them.

When someone stepped up to him from behind, pressing something quickly into his neck, he did the only thing he could think off: pressing John’s number on speed dial, entering SOS as a text message before pressing send.

His fingers quickly dialled Greg next, doing something he normally would never have done: he pressed dial, hoping when the phone connected, Greg would be smart enough to realize something sinister was on foot. Not only was Sherlock calling him, something he never did, but he also didn’t talk…

He might tease Greg all the time about his lack of detective skills but the truth was, the man wasn’t half bad. Not as good as Sherlock of course but he had to admit, even without his assistance, he would still solve cases. Not as many, but still…he wasn’t totally useless…unlike some…

##

By now, he should be used to waking up in damp rooms, in darkness and tied up. It was becoming _a thing_ and Sherlock would have to devote some time to it to break himself from this new habit.

He stifled a groan, keeping himself as still as he could. He strained his ears, listening to everything around him and when he could hear nothing, only perfect stillness, he finally decided to risk opening his eyes.

Nothing but darkness stared back at him and for one, tiny irrational moment, he thought he had gotten blinded.

He took a deep breath, calming his quivering nerves before he tried again. No, he hadn’t gone blind, there simply was no light in the room. To call this a hole, would probably do it justice.

He investigated the mattress he was lying on and then he moved on to the wall, counting the steps it took him to walk around until he reached the mattress again. This room wasn’t anything special; big enough to be a storage room in someone’s cellar which was probably exactly what it was.

He moved around the room again until he found the wooden door. The chances of finding it open or being able to find a way to open it in perfect darkness were slim to none but he wasn’t about to give up without having tried.

He fumbled with the door handle and as predicated, the door was locked. The actual lock was an old fashioned one, requiring a bulky shaped key. He preferred modern locks because opening them was easier.

He leaned against the door, patting himself down for anything useful. His phone was still there.

He blinked at the device as it was illuminating the room. Surely, they wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave him his phone…he shook it, closing his eyes and opening them again but yes, the phone remained. It wasn’t an illusion brought on by atrophying brain cells or whatever else was currently going on him.

He checked for a signal and he barely had one bar. Still, worth a try. For the second time in his life, he dialed a number instead of texting and he dialed his brother because if anyone had access to the right technology to track his phone, then Mycroft would be able to come through for him in a heartbeat.

Sadly the connection didn’t hold because apparently _dialing_ meant the bar decided to go away. He glared, shaking the phone again for a different reason before trying again. The bar winked at him and then the moment he pressed dial, it vanished.

Alright then, he huffed, fingers working manically over the key board, sending a quick message. The bar held until the message went through and then it vanished. Well, at least he had a light now to look around the room. Maybe he could find something useful to pick the lock or at least something to arm himself with.

Sadly, apart from finding dust, a few curious spiders and lots of more dust, nothing useful was there.

With a huff, he sat down on the mattress. Something poked him in the ass. Surely, they wouldn’t have given him a mattress with springs inside it…right?

He got up, started attacking the mattress and yes, there were some springs inside it. How long had the thing been there? There were no springs in mattress nowadays and well, who argue with good fortune?

He ripped the mattress apart, tearing at the metal until he held a few pieces in his hand.

When he heard hurried footsteps outside, he barely managed to cover up the mattress, shoving the small metal springs up his shirt sleeves.

The door opened, revealing Charles Jenkins, old family friend of his mother. This was the missing puzzle which had eluded him for so long. Jenkins had been around a lot when he had been grown up and obviously he must have taken a liking to him. After the botched up attempt with Sherlock and his escape, the man had taken a job oversees somewhere and once he was free, he was going to ask Greg to get in touch with the police in all of the countries Jenkins worked in. He doubted his absence from home prevented him from kidnapping any other boys and girls and him moving around clearly explained why no one had been able to make a case against him up until now.

If his partner moved with him or not, would need to be determined…

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the gun pointed at him. He raised an eye brow. “If killing was the point of all of this, why didn’t you just shoot me in the back instead of kidnapping me?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh I had plans for you,” Jenkins wet his lips and Sherlock got the distinct impression he wouldn’t have liked those plans. “But as always, you’re nothing but a thorn in my side, always screwing things up.”

Sherlock raised his eye brow again because unless he had magical abilities he wasn’t aware off, he hadn’t really done anything but allow himself to be kidnapped. This was a big oversight on his part but…

Any train of thought vanished when the man aimed the gun. Then a loud shot rang out and Sherlock cringed, hunching in on himself, waiting for mind numbing pain signaling his departure from this world.

After a few seconds, Jenkins fell forward, landing face first in the dirt and for once in this life, Sherlock was extremely slow in the uptake. He blinked, once, twice, then he straightened up, looking down at himself and while the faint light coming in from the hall way wasn’t much, it was enough to show him he was unharmed.

“What the…?” he mumbled but he didn’t have to wait long for his answer because moments later, John burst through the door, holding his gun and looking like some crazed animal.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, rushing towards him, patting him down again in a very professional manner which still elicited a rather less than professional responds from Sherlock. Apparently once a certain kind of drive had woken up, there was no squelching those impulses as Sherlock was rapidly learning.

“You hurt anywhere?” John asked and Sherlock shook his head, staring slightly wide eyed at John.

“You sure?” John asked again, moving away from Sherlock to stare at him.

Sherlock nodded again.

“The man didn’t do anything to you? Touch you?”

“If you’re going to show me a doll, asking me to show all the inappropriate places I was touched, you’re going to have to worry about me hitting you in the face,” Sherlock replied dryly, lips quirking slightly.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, “This isn’t funny.”

“It is,” Sherlock replied, now almost grinning. He walked towards John who was still holding the gun ready for more action. He bypassed the body on the ground, giving it a few good kicks.

“You know,” he said conversationally as he passed by his friend. “Maybe we could avoid any future problems, if I simply give you a list of people who have expressed their dislike of me or who have wronged me in some way and you could make a pre-emptive strike…”

John gave him a look full of confusion.

“Shoot them, John…shoot them…” Sherlock explained. “You have a tendency to shoot people who try to harm me and wouldn’t it be better if we nip this in the butt?”

“Sherlock!” John protested as Sherlock simply raised an eye brow as if he wanted to convey that he had no idea what John could possibly be so upset about since his idea was a perfectly sound one.

“You’re not serious!” John was running after him which took a bit of effort considering Sherlock’s long strides and his need to get out of the basement asap.

The darkness was closing in on him and breathing was becoming an issue and he would rather avoid looking even more like a fool than he already did by not remembering key information relevant to a case!

Once he was out of the house, breathing in the air, he ignored the police flurrying about apart from giving a little nod to Greg.

“Did Mycroft track me?” he asked and John grunted in the affirmative.

“Wasn’t very smart of them to leave you with your phone…”

“I don’t know what they were thinking,” Sherlock confirmed. “But then again, even with trying to apply logic to their deeds, I still can’t come with a good reason why they would do this to children.” Sherlock shrugged. “Clearly they weren’t of sound mind.”

John smiled sweetly at him which had Sherlock wondering what he had said now. He had never met a more confusing person than John.

“I would assume Mycroft will come calling soon?” Sherlock pushed his hands into his pockets, heading for the street. Greg knew where to find him for his statement.

But before he got any further, a medic approached him, practically throwing a red blanket at him.

Underneath the coarse fabric, Sherlock scowled, while he extracted himself. John was laughing almost hysterically next to him.

“I don’t know what is so funny,” Sherlock complained. “How is a blankie supposed to make things better?”

“Just go with it,” John gently shoved him towards the ambulance. “If you don’t, Mycroft will probably throw a fit and you’d want to avoid that, right?”

Sherlock frowned. Since when was appeasing Mycroft part of something he would do? Before he could launch into a protest, John had successfully corralled him towards the ambulance and for in his life, Sherlock gave in without a fight.

He _was_ tired. Maybe playing along for once, wasn’t going to be so bad even if it served no purpose. Even if he was fine…

##

A few hours later after constant check ups and having to actually talk to a shrink, Sherlock was ready to grab the nearest fire extinguisher and go on a rampage. Then the infuriating woman would have something to talk about!

He dodged Mycroft on his way out and either the man had gone soft or his brother had let him escape and he wasn’t sure which possibility he thought was more alarming.

John was waiting for him in Baker Street and for a moment, Sherlock just stood there, in the entrance to their flat, staring at his sleeping flatmate.

This time he didn’t weigh any options. He didn’t consider cons and pros and he didn’t try out several scenarios, going with the most logical one in the end.

He walked forward, watching as John’s eyes fluttered open when the floor boards creaked, slowly focusing on him with a soft, sleepy smile on his face.

“I want to sleep with you,” Sherlock blurred out, stopping right before the sofa, peering down at his hopefully soon to be lover.

He honestly had no idea when John had managed to wedge himself so firmly into his life and why he had let the man but Sherlock was beyond tired trying to figure things out.

John was puzzle and since he lost puzzles, he was simply going to go with the flow. For once in his life. And frankly, considering how his reasoning was damaged, he had to consider alternative ways…

“What did you just say?” John was suddenly wide awake, sitting up at record speed before he got off the sofa, nearly bashing his brains in by entangling his fee in the blanket before he stopped before Sherlock, eyeing him as if Sherlock was a skittish foal.

“I said… “Sherlock started again but John held up a hand.

“I heard you the first time…”

“Then why did you…?”

“Sherlock, where is this coming from?”

Sherlock stared. Why was this so complicated?

“You know I’m attracted to you. You probably read the signs weeks ago…”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to frown because was this why John had been acting so puzzling? He paled.

His wobbled towards the sofa, flopping down, pushing his head into his hands. “I’m loosing my logic,” he mumbled, rubbing his temples.

“No, you’re not… “ John was right there beside him, sitting next to him, his hand running soothing circles over his back. “You’ve been through an ordeal, Sherlock. First the abduction, then my betrayal didn’t help, then this case, stirring up all those memories…you’re only human…what you need now is to rest, recharge your batteries and then you’ll be as good as new…”

Sherlock grunted. He didn’t do well with boredom and what John described sounded definitely like _boredom_ to him.

“No, Sherlock.” John continued, voice determined. “I’ve already talked this over with Greg. No more cases for you for at least for a few weeks. I won’t make you get help because I know you won’t talk to a stranger and I’m sure, your brother will agree. But you will need to give yourself some time to cope with this. You said yourself, you’re not at your best…”

“I still want to sleep with you… “Sherlock mulishly insisted.

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoed, looking up, baffled. What kind of question was that?

“Yes, why?” John steadily eyed him, not breaking eye contact. “All this time, I’ve never seen you express any interest in a man or a woman. Why now? Why me? I tell you one thing, I don’t mind casual but I won’t risk our friendship just because you have an itch. There are other ways of scratching, if you know what I mean…”

Sherlock gave John an incredulous look. “You are puzzle,” he slowly said, realising he wasn’t going to get what he wanted unless he spelled it out. “The only one I can never totally figure out. Yes, I viewed your actions as a betrayal but…”

“You still haven’t completely forgiven me,” John interrupted him, smiling softly and a little bit sad. “I know, don’t deny it. But I’m willing to work on gaining back your trust. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I trust you,” Sherlock eventually said, looking ahead and breaking eye contact. “Maybe not fully at this time, you’re right but overall, you are the only one I would trust. Apart from Greg…”

The last bit was added almost as an afterthought as if having Greg as a friend was still too new and odd to actually consider.

“So why change what we have?” John asked and damm him, he wasn’t wrong.

“Because I want to,” Sherlock replied, still somewhat mulish. “I am fascinated by you. You are intriguing. You hold my interest more than anyone else ever has and I still want to know more about you. And I want to know everything about you including what sounds you make when I touch your cock or when you come…”

“I see,” John was smiling again and Sherlock wasn’t so sure what John was _seeing_ but hopefully it would get him to agree.

“Love isn’t a concept you actually believe in because it is an emotion,” John said and how had John arrived at love? And he was right, love was ridiculous. Just a set of chemical reactions with no bases of any kind of actual truth and most people claiming to be in love…

“So I’ll be up front about this, I do love you, Sherlock, and yes, I will do this with you because I won’t be able to help myself. Now that you’ve opened up this particular can of worms, I honestly don’t think I cannot have sex with you…but Sherlock…”

_Can of worms? How flattering!_

_“If we do this, I want you to promise me to let me know the very moment you loose interest. You might be believe in love but I’m telling you, I won’t be able to be reasonable on this subject if we actually become lovers…I won’t be able to hold myself back…”_

_“But I want all anyway,” Sherlock protested._

_“Promise me,” The soldier was back and for a moment, Sherlock considered what John had said._

_He didn’t want John to go away. Ever. Love was only a chemical reaction but…John wasn’t asking him to declare some undying emotion. He was only asking to be kept in the loop should his interest change and while Sherlock doubted this was going to change any time soon, he could most certainly give his word to let John know the moment it did._

_“I promise,” he said gravely and for a moment, the two of them stared at each other, measuring each other up before John nodded, smiling widely at him._

_“So…” he drawled, “My bed or yours?”_

_Epilogue_

_“So you’ve done this before?”_

_Sherlock raised an eye brow, staring at John as he slowly disrobed. Was he seriously asking if he was at virgin?_

_John shifted._

_“John,” Sherlock said, a trace of amusement and bewilderment in his voice. “I need data in order to formulate any ideas…”_

_“Yes but you would’ve deleted it, if you didn’t like it…” John cringed almost instantly causing Sherlock to roll his eyes._

_“Yes, I did delete my first experience, if you want to go there,” he said now with a trace of annoyance. “And while I always say emotion is illogical and shouldn’t be a factor in anything at all, how far do you think I would get with my deductions, with my cases, if I didn’t understand what drives humans? And sex is a huge factor in both men and women, motivating them to do things they normally wouldn’t!”_

_“So you tried sex because it made sense and not because you actually wanted to? Not because you were tempted?”_

_“Why are we talking about this?” Sherlock no longer even bother to hide his annoyance. “If this is how you always start your intimate encounters, no wonder you haven’t gotten laid since you got back…”_

_“Hey!” John protested but Sherlock could tell, he wasn’t seriously angry with him._

_To prove a point and to get things moving along at a speed which did not resemble a turtle running for its life, he yanked of his shirt, throwing it to the floor in a careless manner totally unique to him._

_His shoes, socks and trousers followed and he had only managed to lower the waist of his undergarments when John’s hands stopped him._

_“Let me,” the ex-soldier whispered, eyes trained downward as if he was desperate to finally see all of Sherlock. Sherlock licked his lips, wondering why he suddenly felt so parched and why his heart was fluttering all over the place._

_Being naked in front of John shouldn’t be this thrilling, this exciting or frightening because they were both men, had the same equipment, _hopefully_ , and were both already a far cry away from their hormonal and confused teenage years._

And yet, here he was, sweat breaking out on his forehead, skin clammy and his heart…well, his heart was beating as if he was running like crazy. _Intersting_.

Sherlock’s hands fell away, shaking slightly so he folded them behind his back to hide the tremors. John pulled the garment down his legs, letting it pool on the floor so Sherlock could step out of it.

When had John managed to shed most of his clothes? He too only wore his undergarments and since Sherlock was nothing if not competitive, he quickly grabbed the top of John’s boxers, pulling at them until they were gone, a thing of the past.

Both men stood there, staring at each other, drinking in the other person and despite the initial unease, the security levelled at him by John was now like a warm cotton blanket: comforting and kind of like home.

He reached out, fingers slowly tracing along the upper shoulders of his soon to be lover, snaking down his arms until he wrapped them around John’s wrists, pulling him towards him and into a kiss.

Their lips met as John fell into him but the initial contact quickly turned steamy with both men opening their mouths, tongues warring for dominance as they were trying to map each other.

Sherlock groaned, moving closer until his body was plastered to John’s smaller one but it was John who pushed him backwards until his legs hit the bed, toppling him backwards.

He huffed, a small, startled sound escaping his lips as he bounced on John’s bed. Earlier on John had deemed Sherlock’s room a safety hazard and this was why they were no on John’s bed. Sherlock didn’t mind because for once he was allowed in John’s room without having to sneak in.

He scooted back on the bed, pushing the pillow up so he rested comfortably, spreading his legs a little bit to allow John to nestle in between them.

“How do you want to do this?”

“Do you always talk this much?” Sherlock countered, eyes drifting down to eye his semi hard cock with slight fear because while under normal circumstance he kind of loved a healthy debate, right now he had other priorities.

“Do you want me to…” John made some aborted gestures with his hand causing Sherlock to frown. “Or do you want to do me…?”

“Can’t we do both?”

“Not at the same time!”

“Me then…?” Sherlock’s voice a little bit hesitant because this part of the act, he hadn’t done since…well, better not to be thinking about it right now.

John though for once was quite perceptive because he quickly placed a comforting kiss on Sherlock’s lips, nibbling on his lower lip for a few seconds before pulling away. Sherlock was panting by them and if this weren’t John, his fleeting thoughts might’ve been cause for alarm. But since it was John, he was willing to put with some loss of control. But only if John stopped talking.

Maybe he should do something about it?

He moved, quickly and gracefully causing John to squeak until the small man was flat on his back with Sherlock straddling his legs.

“We’re done talking,” Sherlock declared, grabbing the necessary items John had placed on the bed earlier on.

He grabbed John’s dick, holding it up like a lollipop before he put the condom on. Then, before John could utter a single word, he went down, nibbling on the spongy head as if it was _a lollipop_ before sucking the organ down as far as he could take it.

He set a quick pace, working John to his full, engorged state rather quickly. The slopping sounds coming from him echoed through the room and they were only interrupted by John’s very loud panting.

With a loud pop, Sherlock let the cock fall out of his mouth, grabbing the next item on the list. He moved his legs further apart, twisting and bending until he could reached his balls, finding the entrance to his body…

“ _Ungh…_ ” John said when Sherlock breached himself, his dick slightly deflating but he was determined so he made quick work of stretching himself.

Contrary to what idiots like Anderson liked to assume, he wasn’t asexual. He might not be on the prowl on a daily or weekly (or monthly or yearly) basis but he did have urges. He didn’t indulge in them all the time, firmly believing in mind over body but just because he was no slave to his urges, didn’t mean he didn’t finger himself occasionally.

He brushed over his sweet spots a few times, nearly falling sideways as the onslaught of emotions almost overwhelmed him.

He pulled his fingers out with a grunt, looking up to find John’s head bowed, bent so he could stare at Sherlock’s fingers moving in and out of his body. Since he didn’t want John to come to any bodily harm from twisting himself into a pretzel, he grabbed John’s still very stiff cock, holding him up before scooting over it. Then, he slowly lowered himself down until the head found his hole.

He paused for a second and their eyes met…

“Sherlock…” John mouthed, obviously having lost any command of his vocal cords. Sherlock of course had more contract so when he said John’s name, John was actually able to hear it. “John…”

He then pushed on, eyes scrunching up as the head breached him, sending a few flares of pain through his body. He didn’t believe in sugar coating things so he sunk down quickly until he was sitting, John’s slightly humungous cock buried deep inside.

John was now making like a fish; eyes wide, mouth gaping and it wasn’t the most flattering look for him but for some unknown reason, which Sherlock would catalogue later on for reference, he found it endearing.

John lost all control over his body when Sherlock started to move; forward, upward an then pressing down again, setting a quick rhythm which John helped along by his very own hips strutting upwards.

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut as his own groans and grunt mixed in with John while he marvelled at the cock moving along his tight inner channel.

There was no more pain, only pleasure and he vowed, he would keep this memory forefront and not allow any others to tarnish this. He was good a filing and deleting things and while he would never, _ever_ , delete what happened to him again, there was no point in letting him define him.

Some might argue, that his horrible first experience had already defined him, shaped him into the man he now was but Sherlock believed in the power of choosing his own path and he would be the one who deemed what memory, what event, was important and what wasn’t.

Thus, he didn’t erase the horrible memory but filed it away while the shared pleasure with John was the one, defining moment he gave strength and purpose.

When he came, riding John’s cock, he screamed. John shuddered underneath him and when the roar inside his head subsided, he found himself cradled in John’s arms, with the man planting sweet kisses on the top of his head.

“Next time,” Sherlock threatened, “You’ll be the one riding me.”

“Looking forward to it, Sherlock,” John replied, the smile very audible in this voice. “Looking very much forward to it.”

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for making it this far! I sure hope you enjoyed the story and if you did, please let me know! KUDOS or comments make me smile and brighten my day - yes they do! Thank you.
> 
> You can also find this story over at LJ - [HERE](http://kuhekabir-fics.livejournal.com/110612.html)


End file.
